aralHHl 

)<l! i CHH i nJHiHrPl liHr Hill 

\>W ■■■■■*«■■ SHE n 

* ; iH mi 

■ HH H 

I SSI 

m H H 

M I mm 

iY'*'.'. '; ; Y>'' i H^HV 
<}:• H '.'.'s ■ ■■: 

Jl B^H iSffi Kiln 

^H H HP 
H ffil^WSll 

■ ■ Bfa 

HHH 11 

Iwll^^HI 

' H H Sffl 

H Ha 

H 111 11 

HH HI K 

HH»1H^B 
^^^^^HT 

rap fl wmMmI™ 

'Ul! PBBI 

bh he hsc m 

i?tf2?h:ii>:< BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBn 
















*o 0* 



'+ <? 






v 6 






/- 



% ^ 






$%. 









& 






o 







*A 



%$• :_i 












,-j 



V 



^ <fr 
















. > 









%<£' 









'>• 






<*■ J 












2* 



i\ 



x 0o 



\<cP 



^0 














v ,> 



V 



C A A 



"O 



"OO^ 



\ 





.ftf 



v0 o 







% .#'■ 



\\ '? *< I I J) 



Mtmuim 



Or THE LATE 



REV. CHARLES WOLFE, A. B. 




mnw® (om^MiLiis w©jum,moM. 



Trom a drawing Ijy I. I. HxLSseH. 

FubUsJuxl by K.&T. T. Sarvtirhcftoru 1828. 



REMAINS 



OP THE LATE 



REV. CHARLES WOLFE, A. B. 



CURATE OF DONOUGHMORE, DIOCESS OF ARMAGH. 



WITH A BRIEF 



$&tmoiv ot ftfe Site. 



BY THE 



REV. JOHN A. RUSSELL, M. A. 
i 

'O HIS EXCELLENCY THE LORD LIEUTENANT 
AND CURATE OF ST. WERBURGH's, DUBLIN. 



CHAPLAIN TO HIS EXCELLENCY THE LORD LIEUTENANT OF IRELAND, 



PUBLISHED BY H. & F. J. HUNTINGTON. 




M.DCCC. XXVIII. 



■ Wl4- 




ADVERTISEMENT. 

In offering to the public this first American edition of the 
Memoir and Remains of the Rev. Charles Wolfe, the hope is 
confidently entertained, that it may prove an acceptable ser- 
vice, not only to the cause of refined taste and elegant litera- 
ture, but of pure and undefiled religion. High as Mr. Wolfe 
must be ranked as a scholar and a poet, it is as the faithful 
minister of the Church of Christ that he presents the strong- 
est claims to our affection and admiration, and to that which 
is far above every other motive, the approbation of God. It 
was much to produce, in the well known ' lines on the burial of 
Sir John Moore,' the most splendid and touching lyric of the 
a ge — it was far more, to devote to an obscure country flock 
talents and accomplishments which would have done honour 
to the proudest station, and to wear out prematurely in their 
service a life to which the walks of pleasure and the heights 
of ambition offered such powerful temptations. Let us hope 
that, through the blessing of its Divine Head, the example of 
this zeal and self devotion will not be lost to the Church of 
Christ. Let us learn from it, that earnestness and enthusi- 
asm in the sacred cause may yet be in entire subjection to 
truth and soberness, and saved, by the divine guidance, from 
the dangerous errors of extravagance and fanaticism. 

Hartford, April 15, 1828. G. W. D. , 



1* 



PREFACE. 



It was long a matter of painful doubt to the Editor 
whether he should be justifiable in committing to the 
press the collection of Remains contained in these vol- 
umes ; convinced as he was that none of them were ev- 
er designed for that purpose by the Author himself, who, 
indeed, would have shrunk from the idea of publication. 
However, his hesitation has been overborne by the 
strong hope that they may prove generally instructive 
as well as interesting, and afford a peculiar gratifica- 
tion to a wide circle of friends. 

It was at first intended to publish the Sermons only ; 
but, on a more mature consideration, it seemed advisa- 
ble to give a short account of the Author, interspersed 
with his poems and other remains, particularly as many 
of them have been for a considerable time in private cir- 
culation amongst a few acquaintances, and would, most 
probably, have found their way to the press in some oth- 
er shape. In fact, their publication appeared inevitable ; 
and it therefore seemed better that they should go forth 
to the public through the hands of a friend, who was in 
possession of all the original manuscripts, and who had 
also the happiness of an uninterrupted intimacy and 
communication with the Author, from the time he en- 
tered college until his lamented death. 



VIII. PREFACE. 

The state in which the papers were committed to him 
rendered it a task of greater labour to select, arrange, 
and transcribe them for the press, than can easily be im- 
agined. This circumstance, and the late arrival of 
some promised communications, caused a greater delay 
in the publication than the writer could have anticipa- 
ted. 

The miscellaneous nature of the work may possibly 
render it more generally useful than one exclusively up- 
on religious subjects. Many, who admire the raptures 
of the poet, may be induced to regard with reverence 
the instructions of the divine : they may feel a peculiar 
desire to mark what thoughts a heart, animated by the 
Muse, can bring forth when hallowed by a loftier and 
purer inspiration. 

The Editor is painfully conscious how imperfect is 
the sketch which he has here given of the Author's 
life and character ; and must throw himself upon the 
indulgence of the friends who are most deeply interest- 
ed in the work, with an humble hope that they will make 
candid allowance for any error of judgment, or defect in 
execution, which they may observe in the performance 
of the pleasing but anxious task he has had to fulfil. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Memoir . 13 

«* Jugurtha incarcerates, vitam ingemit relictam'' ... 17 

Battle of Busaco ; Deliverance of Portugal 24 

Burial of Sir John Moore . . , 31 

Spanish Song 35 

The Grave of Dermid 36 

Song 38 

Song 39 

The Frailty of Beauty 40 

The College Course 43 

Patriotism 51 

Fragments of a Speech delivered in the Chair, in the 

Historical Society 55 

Farewell to Lough Bray 71 

Song 73 

The Dargle . . , 74 

Birth-day Poem . . , 78 

Song 80 

To a Friend 81 

Speech before a Meeting of the Irish Tract Society, Edin- 
burgh, May 1821 ,..,.,.•.,,,,,,,,,. JJ5 



*• CONTENTS. 

SERMONS. 
SERMON I. 

ECCLESIASTES, XH. 1. 

Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth 147 



PAGE 



SERMON II. 

Hebrews, xi. 1. 
Faith is the substance of things hoped for ; the ev- 
idence of things not seen 158 

SERMON III. 

Genesis, i. 26. 
And God said, Let us make man in our image, af- 
ter our likeness 167 

SERMON IV. 

Matthew, xiii. 44. 

The kingdom of Heaven is like unto treasure hid 
in afield; the which when a man hath found, he 
hideth, and for joy thereof goeth, andselleth all 
that he hath, and buyeth that field 177 

SERMON V. 

Matthew, xi. 28. 

Come unto me, all ye that labour, and are heavy la- 
den, and I will give you rest 185 

SERMON VI. 

Matthew, ix. 12. 

They that be whole need not a physician, but they 
that are sick 198 



CONTENTS. XI. 

SERMON VII. 
1 Corinthians, vi. 20. 

PAGB 

Ye are bought with a price 206 

SERMON VIII. 

Colossians, iii. 2. 
Set your affections on things above, not on things 
on the earth . 215 

SERMON IX. 

Luke, ix. 23. 

And he said to them all, If any man will come af- 
ter me, let him deny himself and take up his cross 
daily and follow me ... 222 

SERMON X. 

Matthew, xi. 30. 
My yoke is easy, and my burden is light 230 

SERMON XI. 

Romans, v. 12. 
By one man sin entered into the world 238 

SERMON XII, 

1 Corinthians, xiii. 12, 13. 
Now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to 
face : now I know in part ; but then shall I know 
even as also I am known. And now abideth 
Faith, Hope, Charity, these three ; but the great' 
est of these is Charity 248 



XII. CONTENTS. 

SERMON XIII. 
Ecclesiastes, viii. 11. 

PAGE 

Because sentence against an evil work is not execut- 
ed speedily ; therefore the heart of the sons of 
men is fully set in them to do evil 256 

SERMON XIV. 

1 John, iv. 10. 

Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he 
loved us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation 
for our sins 265 

SERMON XV. 

1 Corinthians, x. 13. 

There hath no temptation taken you but such as is 
common to man : but God is faithful, who will 
not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able ; 
but will with the temptation also make a way to 
escape, that ye may be able to bear it ...... 272 

APPENDIX. 

Observations on Religious Poetry 279 

Jesus raising Lazarus 281 

On the Death of Abel (prize poem) 262 

Graecia capta ferum Victorem cepit 286 

Principiis Obsta 287 

Ira furor brevis est 288 

Miscellaneous Thoughts 288 



REMAINS 



OF 



THE REV. CHARLES WOLFE. 



Jn attempting to sketch even a brief Memoir of a 
friend, whose existence had been for many years blend- 
ed with our own, there are difficulties which may be 
more easily conceived than described. 

It is hard to restrain the pen from the expression of 
feelings which to others would be tedious and uninter- 
esting. It is hard also to speak fully and freely of the 
immediate subject of the narrative, without an appa- 
rent self-obtrusion. This, however, shall be careful- 
ly avoided in the present little work ; the object of 
which is, simply, to collect the Remains, and record a 
few particulars of the life and character of one, little 
known to the world ; but who, throughout the circle 
in which he moved, excited an interest which cannot 
easily be forgotten, and diffused blessings with which 
his name and his memory will long be held in grateful 
association. 

Amidst the pensive recollections awakened by an 
attempt to record the life of a departed friend, there 
may be much to afford comfort and instruction to one's 
self, which it would be difficult, perhaps impossible, to 
convey to an uninterested reader. It can easily be 
conceived in general, with what a tender and prevail- 
ing influence the instructions received at former periods 

2 



* 4 REMAINS OF 

of life come home to the heart when they are associa- 
ted with the recollection of the amiable qualities, the 
exalted principles, and the early death of a cherished 
friend, from whom they have been imbibed. " Amidst 
the sadness of such a remembrance (says an eloquent 
writer,)* it will be a consolation that they are not en- 
tirely lost to us. Wise monitions, when they return on 
us with this melancholy charm, have more pathetic co- 
gency than when they were first uttered by the voice of 
a living friend." " It will be an interesting occupa- 
tion to recount the advantages which we have received 
from beings who have left the world, and to reinforce 
our virtues from the dust of those who first taught 
them." 

Such have been the feelings of the writer, and such 
will probably be the feelings of other friends upon the 
recollections which this little memoir may awaken. 
But, upon these sentiments it is unnecessary, as it would 
perhaps be obtrusive, to dilate. I shall therefore pass 
on to the immediate subject of the memoir. 

To those who have personally known him whose Re- 
mains are presented in this volume to the public, it 
may be satisfactory to learn some particulars of his life. 

Charles Wolfe was the youngest son of Theobald 
Wolfe, Esq. Blackhall, county Kildare. His mother 
was the daughter of the Rev. Peter Lombard. He was 
born in Dublin, 14th December, in the year 1791. 
The family from which he was descended has not been 
undistinguished. Through the military achievements 
of the illustrious hero of Quebec, the name stctnds con- 
spicuous upon the records of British renown. It has 
also been signalised at the Irish bar, especially in the 
person of the much-lamented Lord Kilwarden, one of 
the same family, who was elevated to the dignity of the 
judicial bench. At an early age the subject of this 
memoir lost his father ; not long after whose death, the 
family removed to England, where they resided for 
some years. Charles was sent to a school in Bath in 

* Foster's Essays, p. 16, 



THE llEY. C. WOLFE. 15 

the year 1801 ; from which, in a few months, he was 
obliged to return home in consequence of the delicacy 
of his health, which interrupted his education for 
twelve months. Upon his recovery, he was placed un- 
der the tuition of Dr. Evans, in Salisbury, from which 
he was removed in the year 1805 ; and soon after was 
sent as a boarder to Winchester school, of which Mr. 
Richards, sen. was then the able master. There he 
soon distinguished himself by his great proficiency in 
classical knowledge, and by his early powers of Latin 
and Greek versification, and displayed the dawnings of 
a genius which promised to set him amidst that bright 
constellation of British poets which adorns the litera- 
ture oi the present age. 

The many high testimonies to his amiable disposition 
and superior talents, which are supplied by the affec- 
tionate letters of his schoolmasters, shew that he was 
not overvalued by his own family, with every member 
of which he seems to have been the special favourite. 
I cannot better describe the manner in which his cha- 
racter as a boy was appreciated at school and at home, 
and how deservedly it was so prized, than in the follow- 
ing simple language of a very near relative, to whom 
I am indebted for some of the particulars of his life al- 
ready mentioned. " The letters I enclose you bear 
testimony to the amiable character of my dear, dear 
Charles, such as I ever remember it. Those from Mr. 
Richards I can better estimate than any one else, from 
knowing that he was not easily pleased in a pupil, or 
apt to natter. He was greatly attracted by superior 
talents ; but you will see that he speaks of qualities of 
more value. He never received even a slight punish- 
ment or reprimand at any school to which he ever went ; 
and in nearly twelve years that he was under my moth- 
er's care, I cannot recollect that he ever acted contrary 
to her wishes, or caused her a moment's pain, except 
parting with her when he went to school. I do not 
know whether he ever told you that he had, when a 
boy, a wish to enter the army, which was acquired by 



16 



REMAINS OP 



being in the way of military scenes ; but, when he 
found that it would give his mother pain, he totally 
gave up the idea, which I am sure, all his life, he thank- 
ed God that he had done. In 1808 he left Winchester 
(where he had been three years), owing to our coming 
to Ireland, as my mother could not think of leaving 
him behind. His company was her first earthly com- 
fort, and she could not relinquish it ; indeed, we used 
to count the hours when the time drew near that he 
was expected. We were often told that we would spoil 
him, but you know whether it was so. When we arri- 
ved in Ireland, it was intended that he should go to 
some other school ; but he did not go to any, nor had 
he any one to read with him, so that he entered college 
with much less previous instruction than most others. 
I believe you knew him soon after ; and I need not 
tell you of him since, or what he has been even if I 
could. I have never heard of a schoolfellow or a col- 
lege acquaintance who did not respect or love him ; but 
I will not say more to you." 

The pleasing testimony to his character and abili- 
ties contained in this extract is indeed fully borne out 
by the accounts which some of his schoolfellows have 
given of him to the writer. They spoke of him with 
the strongest affection, and represented him as the 
pride of Winchester school. Some of the poems and 
Latin verses by which he distinguished himself there, 
shall appear at the close of this volume. 

In the year 1809, he entered the University of Dub- 
lin, under the tuition of the late Rev. Dr. Davenport, 
who immediately conceived the highest interest for him, 
and continued to shew it by special proofs of his fa- 
vour. In a few months after his entrance, the writer 
had the happiness of becoming acquainted with him. 
This casual acquaintance soon became a cordial inti- 
macy, which quickly ripened into a friendship that 
continued not only uninterrupted, but was cemented 
more and more by constant intercourse, and by com- 
munity of pursuits : it was, above all, improved and 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. *$ 

sweetened by an unreserved interchange of thoughts 
on those subjects which affect our eternal interests, and 
open to us the prospects of friendships which death can 
only suspend, but not destroy. 

Our author immediately distinguished himself by his 
high classical attainments, for which he was early re- 
warded by many academical honours. The first English 
poem which attracted general notice was written very 
early in his college course, upon a subject proposed by 
the heads of the university. It evinces a boldnes of 
thought, a vigour of expression, and somewhat of a 
dramatic spirit, which seems to entitle it to a place in 
this litttle collection ; and it shall therefore be present- 
ed first in order to the reader. The prison-scene of 
Jugurtha (which is the subject of the poem) gave the 
author full scope for a masterly exhibition of the dark- 
est and deadliest passions of human nature in fierce 
conflict. Disappointed ambition, revenge, despair, re- 
morse, were to be represented as raging by turns in the 
captive's mind, or dashing, as it were, against each 
other, and struggling for utterance. The subject was 
proposed in the following form. — 

"JUGURTHA INCARCERATUS, VITAM INGEMIT 
RELICTAM." 

Well — is the rack prepared — the pincers heated ? 

Where is the scourge ? How — not employ'd in Rome ? 

We have them in Numidia. Not in Rome ? 

I'm sorry for it ; I could enjoy it now ; 

I might have felt them yesterday ; but now, — 

Now I have seen my funeral procession ; 

The chariot-wheels of Marius have roll'd o'er me ; 

His horses' hoofs have trampled me in triumph ; 

I have attain'd that terrible consummation 

My soul could stand aloof, and from on high 

Look down upon the ruins of my body, 

Smiling in apathy ; I feel no longer ; 

I challenge Rome to give another pang. — - 

Gods ! how he smiled, when he beheld me pause 

2* 



18 



REMAINS OF 

Before his car, and scowl upon the mob ; 

The curse of Rome was burning on my lips, 

And I hadgnaw'd my chain, and hurl'd it at them ? 

But that I knew he would have smiled again. — 

A king ! and led before the gaudy Marius, 

Before those shouting masters of the world, 

As if I had been conquer'd : while each street, 

Each peopled wall, and each insulting window, 

Peal'd forth their brawling triumphs o'er my head. 

Oh ! for a lion from thy woods, Numidia ! — 

Or had I, in that moment of disgrace, 

Enjoy'd the freedom but of yonder slave, 

I would have made my monument in Rome. 

Yet am I not that fool, that Roman fool, 

To think disgrace entombs the hero's soul,—- 

For ever damps his fires, and dims his glories ; 

That no bright laurel can adorn the brow 

That once has bow'd ; no victory's trumpet-sound 

Can drown in joy the rattling of his chains : 

No ; — could one glimpse of victory and vengeance 

Dart preciously across me, I could kiss 

Thy footstep's dust again ; then all in flame, 

With Massinissa's energies unquench'd, 

Start from beneath thy chariot-wheels, and grasp 

The gory laurel reeking in my view, 

And force a passage through disgrace to glory — 

Victory ! Vengeance ! Glory ! — Oh these chains I 

My soul 's in fetters, too ; for, from this moment, 

Through all eternity I see but — death ; 

To me there's nothing future now, but death : 

Then come and let me gloom upon the past. — 

So then — Numidia's lost ; those daring projects — 

(Projects that ne'er were breathed to mortal man, 

That would have startled Marius on his car,) 

O'erthrown, defeated ! What avails it now, 

That my proud views despised the narrow limits, 

Which minds that span and measure out ambition 

Had fix'd to mine ; and, while I seem'd intent 

On savage subjects and Numidian forests, 



THE REV C. WOLFE 19 

My soul had pass'd the bounds of Africa ! — 
Defeated, overthrown I yet to the last 
Ambition taught rne hope, and still my mind, 
Through danger, flight, and carnage, grasp'd dominion i 
And had not Bocchus — curses, curses on him ! — 
What Rome has done, she did it for ambition ; 
What Rome has done, I might — I would have done ; 
What thou hast done, thou wretch ! — Oh had she proved 
Nobly deceitful ; had she seized the traitor, 
And join'd him with the fate of the betray'd, 
I had forgiven her all ; for he had been 
The consolation of my prison hours ; 
I could forget my woes in stinging him ; 
And if, before this day, his little soul 

Had not in bondage wept itself away, 

Rome and Jugurtha should have triumph'd o'er him. 

Look here, thou caitiff, if thou canst, and see 

The fragments of Jugurtha ; view him wrapt 

In the last shred he borrowed from Numidia ; 

'Tis cover'd with the dust of Rome ; behold 

His rooted gaze upon the chains he wears, 

And on the channels they have wrought upon him ; 

Then look around upon his dungeon walls, 

And view yon scanty mat, on which his frame 

He flings, and rushes from his thoughts to sleep. 
Sleep ! 

I'll sleep no more, until I sleep for ever : 

When I slept last, T heard Adherbal scream. 

I'll sleep no more ! I'll think until I die : 

My eyes shall pore upon my miseries, 

Until my miseries shall be no more. — 

Yet wherefore did he scream ? Why, I have heard 

His living scream, — it was not half so frightful. 

Whence comes the difference ? When the man was living, 

Why, I did gaze upon his couch of torments 

With placid vengeance, and each anguish'd cry 

Gave me stern satisfaction ; now he's dead, 

And his lips move not ; — yet his voice's image 

Flash'd such a dreadful darkness o'er my soul, 



20 REMAINS OF 

I would not mount Numidia's throne again, 
Did ev'ry night bring such a scream as that. 
Oh yes, 'twas I that caused that living one, 
And therefore did its echo seem so frightful : — 
If 'twere to do again, I would not kill thee ; 
Wilt thou not be contented ?— But thou say'st, 
'* My father was to thee a father also ; 
He watch'd thy infant years, he gave thee all 
That youth could ask, and scarcely manhood came, 

Than came a kingdom also ; yet didst thou" 

Oh I am faint ! — they have not brought me food — 

How did I not perceive it until now ? 

Hold, — my Numidian cruise is still about me — 

No drop within — Oh faithful friend, companion 

Of many a weary march and thirsty day, 

'Tis the first time that thou hast fail'd my lips. — 

Gods ! I'm in tears ! — I did not think of weeping. 

Oh Marius, wilt thou ever feel like this ? 

Ha ! — I behold the ruins of a city; 

And on a craggy fragment sits a form 

That seems in ruins also ; how unmoved, 

How stern he looks ! Amazement ! it is Marius ! 

Ha ! Marius, think'st thou now upon Jugurtha ? 

He turns ! he's caught my eye ! I see no more ! 



The above poem was written in the first year of his 
college course, at which early period he had gained the 
highest distinction amongst his contemporaries for his 
classical attainments. Towards the close of the same 
year, he had to sustain a severe domestic affliction, in 
the death of his mother, — an event which wrought 
upon his affectionate heart an impression of the deepest 
regret. 

As soon as he was enabled to resume his studies, he 
entered upon them with diligence. He did not, at first, 
apply, with much interest or assiduity, to the course of 
science prescribed in our university ; and it appears 
that the circumstance which first led him to bestow 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 21 

upon it the attention proportioned to its importance, 
was a desire to assist some less gifted acquaintance in 
that branch of his academic pursuits. This was in- 
deed truly characteristic of his natural disposition, 
which ever led him to apply himself with greater zeal in 
promoting the advantage or interest of others than his 
own. It had, however, a favourable effect upon his 
own studies, as it drew out his talents for scientific ac- 
quirements, and gave such an impulse to his progress, 
that he soon after won the prize from the most distin- 
guished competitors, at an examination in which the 
severer sciences formed the leading subjects. When 
his circumstances, some time afterwards, rendered it 
expedient for him to undertake the duties of a college 
tutor, he discharged the task with such singular devo- 
ted ness and disinterested anxiety, as materially to en- 
trench upon his own particular studies. He was indeed 
so prodigal of his labour and of his time to each pupil, 
that he reserved little leisure for his own pursuits or 
relaxations. 

At the usual period, he obtained a scolarship, with 
the highest honour, upon which he immediately became 
a resident in college. A new theatre of literary honour 
was opened to him, at the commencement of the same 
year, where his genius for composition in prose and 
verse, and his natural powers of oratorical excellence, 
had more ample sphere for exercise and cultivation. 
In the Historical Society, of which he was now admit- 
ted a member, they were encouraged and expanded by 
the stimulus of generous competition, and by constant 
mental collision with the most accomplished and en- 
lightened of his fellow-students. He soon obtained 
medals for oratory, and for compositions in prose and 
verse ; and was early appointed to the honourable office 
of opening the sessions, after the summer recess, by a 
speech from the chair. This was the grand post of 
distinction to which the most successful speakers in 
the society continually aspired. The main object of 
the address, was to unfold the advantages resulting 



22 



REMAINS OF 



from the Institution, and to expatiate at large upon its 
three leading departments, — History, Poetry, and Ora- 
tory. Cur author, though he had not fully completed 
his speech, was received with the highest applause, and 
the gold medal was adjudged to him by unanimous ac- 
clamation. This speech seems never to have been 
written out fairly ; but some fragments of it have been 
preserved, which, with a few other of his early produc- 
tions, shall be presented to the reader in the course of 
this volume. 

Most of his poems were written within a very short 
period, during his abode in college ; but the order in 
which they were composed cannot be exactly ascer- 
tained. It is not the editor's object to enter into any 
minute critique upon the several fugitive little pieces 
which are here collected together. They shall be ac- 
companied principally with such brief notices as may 
appear necessary to throw light upon the occasions 
which gave rise to them, and the circumstances under 
which they were written. 

The next specimen of his poetical talents, which it 
may not be uninteresting to insert here, seems to have 
been but little valued by himself, as he never took the 
trouble of transcribing more than a few lines from the 
first rude sketch. His native modesty, and the fastid- 
ious judgment which he exercised over all his own 
compositions, led him often to undervalue what even his 
most judicious friends approved and admired. 

The subject of the present poem is one of great his- 
torical interest. It chiefly refers to the battle of Busaco, 
which first inspired the allied armies with mutual con- 
fidence, and led the way to those successful struggles 
which terminated in the complete deliverance of Portugal 
from the usurpation and tyranny of France. A brief 
account of this engagement, extracted from the Edin- 
burgh Annual Register (vol. iii. p. 462,) may form an 
appropriate introduction to the poem. 

' Busaco, which was now to become famous in Bri- 
tish history, had long been a venerable name in Portu- 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 



93 



gal. It is the only place in that kingdom where the 
barefooted Carmelites possessed what, in their lan- 
guage, is called a desart, an establishment where those 
brethren whose devotion flies to the highest pitch, may 
at once enjoy the advantage of the eremite, with the 
security of the cenobite life ; one of those places 
where man has converted an earthly paradise into a 
purgatory for himself, but where superstition almost 
seems sanctified by every thing around it. The soli- 
tude and silence of Busaco were now to be broken by 
events, in which its hermits, dead as they were to the 
world, might be permitted to feel all the agitation of 
worldly hope and fear. The British and Portuguse 
army was posted along the ridge, extending nearly eight 
miles, and forming the segment of a circle, whose ex- 
treme points embraced every part of the enemy's po- 
sition, and from whence every movement of the enemy 
below could be immediately observed. On the 26th 
Sept. 1810, the light troops on both sides were engaged 
throughout the line ; at six on the following morning, 
the French made two desperate attacks upon Lord Wel- 
linton's position ; one on the right, the other on the 
left of the highest point of the sierra : this spot is re- 
markable as commanding one of the most extensive 
views in Portugal ; and on the very summit stands a 
cross, planted upon a basis of masonry of such magni- 
tude, that it is said that three thousand carts of stone 
were used in the work. One division of French in- 
fantry gained the top of the ridge, and was driven back 
with the bayonet ; another division, farther on the 
right, was repulsed before it could reach the top. On 
the left they made their attack with three divisions, 
only one of which made any progress towards the sum- 
mit, and this was charged with the bayonet, and driven 
down with immense loss. Some of the Portuguese 
charging a superior force, got so wedged in among 
them, that they had not room to use their bayonets ; 
they turned up the but-ends of their muskets, and plied 
them with such vigour, as completely to clear the way." 



24 REMAINS OF 



BATTLE OF BUSACO; DELIVERANCE OF PORTUGAL 

The breeze sigh'd sadly o'er the midnight flood ; 
On Lisbon's tow'rs Don Henry's spirit stood : 
He wore not helm, he wore not casque ; his hair 
Streamed like a funeral banner in the air : 
In mournful attitude, with aspect drear, 
He held revers'd his country's guardian spear ; 
Dark was his eye, and gloomy was his brow, 
He gaz'd with sternness on the wave below ; 
Then thrice aloft the deathful spear he shook, 
While sorrow's torrent from his bosom broke : — 
Fiends ! may the angel of destruction shed 
This blood-red cup of horrors on your head ! 

Throughout, your camp may hell-born demons play, 

Grin ruin to your host, and howl dismay ! 

Was it for this, dear, desolated shore ! 

I taught proud Commerce here her gifts to pour, 

Allur'd from fairer Italy the maid, 

And here the gound-works of the empire laid ? ' 

Is there a bolt to mortal guidance giv'n ? — 

Where are the thund'ring delegates of Heav'n — 

Through Europe's plains the tyrant's voice is heard, 

And blood-red anarchy her flag - has rear'd, 

Roll'd round her gorgon-eyes from native France, 

And petrified the nations with a glance ; 

Affrighted Italy her blasted vines 

Has dropp'd, and Spain let fall her orange lines, 

And tough Teutonic forests, though they broke 

Awhile her force, yet yielded to the stroke. 

Where shall I turn, where find the free, the brave, 

A heart to pity, and an arm to save ? 

To Britain, glorious Britain, will I call, 

Her bulwark, valour, — and the sea, her wall. 

Around her crest, Gaul's jav'lins idly play, 

And glance with baffled impotence away ; 

Her hands the redd'ning bolts of vengeance bear, 

Fate's on her helm, and death upon her spear ; 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 

-She scorns at Victory's shrine her vows to pay, 

She grasps the laurel, she commands the day. 

England, what ! ho ! — as thus the spectre spoke, 

All Lisbon's turrets to their bases shook : — 

England, what ! ho ! — again the spectre cried, 

And trembling Tagus heaved with all his tide, 

England, to arms ! — at this dread call advance ! 

Assist, defend, protect ! — now tremble, France !— 

He spoke, — then plunged into the river's breast, 

And Tagus wrapt him in his billowy vest. 

O'er seas, o'er shores the solemn summons pass'd, 

It rode upon the pinions of the blast : 

The midnight shades are gone, the glooms are fled, 

See ! the dawn broke as Britain rear'd her head ! 

With Albion's spear upon her shield she smote ; 

Through every island rung the inspiring note. 

Roused at the sound, the English lion rose, 

And burnt to meet hereditary foes ; 

From Highland rocks came ev'ry Scottish clan ; 

Forward rush'd Erin's sons, and led the van : 

The Usurper shook, — then sent each chief of name, 

Partners of victory, sharers of his fame, 

Who bore Gaul's standard through the hostile throng, 

While Lodi trembled as they rush'd along ; 

Who traversed Egypt's plains and Syria's waste, 

And left a red memorial where they pass'd ; 

Who bathed, midst French and Austrian heaps of slain, 

Their gory footsteps on Marengo's plain : 

And those who laid the Prussian glories low, 

Yet felt a Brunswick's last expiring blow ; 

Who on Vimeria's heights were taught to feel 

The vengeful fury of a freeman's steel ; 

Who hung on British Moore in his retreat, 

And purchas'd dear experience by defeat. 

Such were the chiefs that Gaul's batailia led ; — 

Yet England came, they met her, and tliey fled. 

At dark Busaco's foot stood France's might, 

The hopes of Britain occupied the height. 

3 



.25 



^6 REMAINS OF 

Gaul's mantling terrors to the summit tend, — 

Hold, Britain, charge not, — the attack suspend ; — 

Hush'd be the British whirlwind, — not a breath 

Be heard within thy host, — be still as death ! — 

"With gathering gloom comes France's dark array,— 

Rest, Britain on thy arms, — thy march delay — 

See ! France has gain'd the summit of the hill ! 

See ! she advances ! Soldier yet be still — 

She's at our bayonets, — touches every gun, — 

Now speed thee, England ! and the work is done. — 

Now where is France ? — Yon mountain heap of dead, 

Yon scatter'd band will tell you how they sped ; 

The dying groan, the penetrating yell, 

May tell how quick she sunk, how soon she fell : 

Her sons are gone, her choicest blood is spilt, 

Her brightest spear is shiver'd to the hilt. 

Nor ceased they here ; but from the mountain height, 

Tempestuous Britain rolls to meet the Sght, 

Pours the full tide of battle o'er the plain, 

And whelms beneath the waves its adverse train : 

The vanquish'd squadrons dread an added loss ; 

They skulk behind the rampart and the fosse; — 

Why lingers Wellesley ? Does he fear their force ? 

Dreads he their foot, or trembles at their horse ? 

Alas ! by hands unseen, he deals the blow, 

By hands unseen, he prostrates ev'ry foe. 

One night — (and France- still shudders at that night, 

Pregnant with death , with horror, and affright ;) 

One night — on plans of victory intent, 

A spy into the hostile camp he sent ; 

It was a wretch, decrepit, shrivel'd, wild, — 

A haggard visage that had never smiled ; 

The miscreant's jaws were never seen to close, 

The miscreant's eyes had never known repose ; — 

Swift to the Gallic camp she sped her way, 

And Britain's soldiers, e'er the dawn of day, 

Heard through the hostile tents her footstep's tread :- 

For Famine — raging Famine claim'd her dead : 



THE REV. C WOLFE. 



•27 



With frantic haste they fled the fatal post, 
Long boldly held — now miserably lost ; 
Dismay, confusion through the rout appear, 
Victorious Britain hangs upon their rear. 
No, sweet Humanity ! I dare not tell 
How infants bled, how mothers, husbands fell ; 
I dare not paint the agonizing look 
The mother gave, when Gaul her infant took, — 
Took, and while yet the cherub's smile was fresh, 
Pierced its fair limbs and tore its baby-flesh — 
I dare not paint the wife's transporting woe, 
When sunk her husband by Massena's blow ; — 
Hear, thou dread warrior ! hear, thou man of blood ! 
Hear, thou, with female, infant gore imbrued ! 
When, sinking in the horrors of the tomb, 
The avenging angel shall pronounce thy doom — 
When war's loud yell grows faint, the drum's dead roll 
Strikes languid, and more languid on the soul — 
When Britain's cannons may unheeded roar, 
And Wellesley's name has power to fright no more,— 
Yon widow's shrieks shall pierce thee till thou rave, 
And form a dread artillery in the grave ! 
Heard ye that burst of joy ? From Beira's coast 
To Algarve's southern boundaries it crost ; 
It pass'd from undulating Tagus 1 source, 
And burst where Guadiana holds his course. 
Farewell ! proud France ! (they cried) thy power is broke - 9 
Farewell forever to thy iron yoke .' 
But blest for ever be old Ocean's queen, 
Still on his bosom may she reign serene. 
When on these plains our future offspring gaze, 
To them our grateful heart shall sound thy praise. 
To Britain's generous aid these plains we owe, 
For us she drew the sword, and bent the bow. 
We sunk, we crouch'd beneath a tyrant's hand- 
Victorious Britain loosed the usurper's band. 
We bow'd to France, obey'd each stern decree,— 
Majestic Britain rose — and all was free. 



2S REMAINS OF 

It requires no apology for introducing here a poem 
already well known to the public — the Ode on the Bu- 
rial of Sir John Moore. For some years past it has 
excited considerable interest in the literary circles ; 
and it was mentioned by a highly respectable authority, 
as having been long a matter of surprise among them, 
that its author had not revealed his name, or published 
any other similar production. Subsequently to this ac- 
count, it has obtained a very general popularity from 
the splendid eulogium pronounced upon it by the late 
Lord Byron. Little as the author himself seemed to val- 
ue the shadowy prize of poetic reputation, or of any mere 
worldly distinction, it appears but an act of literary 
justice to establish his claim to the production of a po- 
em so justly, and so honourably appreciated, by giving 
it a place amongst his more valuable remains. The 
noble poet's enthusiastic admiration of this nameless 
and unpatronized effusion of genius, is authenticated 
in a late work, entitled, " Medwin's Conversations of 
Byron." The impress of such a name upon the poetic 
merits of an ode deemed not unworthy of his lordship's 
own transcendent powers, is too valuable not to be re- 
corded here. 

The passage alluded to occurs in vol ii. p. 154 
(second edit.) of the above-mentioned publication, and 
is as follows : — 

" The conversation turned after dinner on the lyrical 
poetry of the day ; and a question arose as to which 
was the most perfect ode that had been produced. — 
Shelley contended for Coleridge's on Switzerland, be- 
ginning — ' Ye Clouds,' &c. ; others named some of 
Moore's Irish Melodies, and Campbell's Hohenlinden ; 
and had Lord Byron not been present, his own Invoca- 
tion in Manfred, or the Ode to Napoleon, or on Promo- 
theus, might have been cited. 

" ' Like Gray,' said he, ■ Campbell smells too much 
of the oil : he is never satisfied with what he does ; his 
finest things have been spoiled by over-polish. Like 



THE REV. C WOLFE, 



29 



paintings, poems may be too highly finished. The great 
art is effect, no matter how produced. 

" ' I will shew you an ode you have never seen, that 
I consider little inferior to the best which the present 
prolific age has brought forth.' With this, he left the 
table, almost before the cloth was removed, and return- 
ed with a magazine, from which he read the following 
lines on Sir John Moore's burial. 

" 'The feeling with which he recited these admira- 
ble stanzas I shall never forget. After he had come to 
an end, he repeated the third, and said it was perfect, 
particularly the lines — 

* But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
' With his martial cloak around him.' 

" ' I should have taken the whole,' said Shelley,' 'for 
a rough sketch of Campbell's.' 

" ' No,' replied Lord Byron; 'Campbell would have 
claimed it, if it had been his.' " 

The poem found its way to the press without the 
concurrence or knowledge of the author. It was re- 
cited by a friend in presence of a gentleman travelling 
towards the north of Ireland, who was so much struck 
with it, that he requested and obtained a copy ; and 
immediately after, it appeared in the Newry Telegraph, 
with the initials of the author's name. From that it 
was copied into most of the London prints, and thence 
into the Dublin papers ; and subsequently it appeared, 
with some considerable errors, in the Edinburgh An- 
nual Register, which contained the narrative that first 
kindled the poet's feelings on the subject, and supplied 
the materials to his mind. It remained for a long time 
unclaimed; and other poems,* in the mean time, ap- 
peared, falsely purporting to be written by the same 
unknown hand, which the author would not take the 
pains to disavow. It lately, however, seemed to have 

* Amongst those was an " Address to Sleep," which appeared in 
Blackwood's Magazine. 



30 REMAINS OF 

become the prey of some literary spoliators, whose dis- 
honest ambition was immediately detected and exposed. 
Indeed, it is hard to say, whether the claims were urg- 
ed seriously, or whether it was a stratagem to draw out 
the acknowledgment of the real author. However, the 
matter has been placed beyond dispute, by the proof 
that it appeared with the initials C. W., in an Irish print, 
long prior to the alleged dates which its false claimants 
assign. 

It is unnecessary to enter into further particulars 
upon this point, as the question has been set at rest ; 
and as Captain Medwin, who at first conjectured the 
poem to have been written by Lord Byron himself, has 
avowed, in his second edition of his work, that " his 
supposition was erroneous, and that it appears to be the 
production of the late Rev. C. Wolfe." It may be in- 
teresting to prefix the paragraph in the narrative of Sir 
John Moore's burial, which produced so strong an 
emotion in the mind of our author, and prompted this 
immediate and spontaneous effusion of poetic genius. 

" Sir John Moore had often said, that if he was killed 
in battle, he wished to be buried where he fell. The 
body was removed at midnight to the citadel of Corun- 
na. A grave was dug for him on the rampart there, 
by a party of the 9th regiment, the aides du-camp at- 
tending by turns. No coffin could be procured, and the 
officers of his staff wrapped the body, dressed as it was, 
in a military cloak and blankets. The interment was 
hastened ; for, about eight in the morning, some firing 
was heard, and the officers feared that if a serious at- 
tack were made, they should be ordered away, and not 
suffered to pay him their last duty. The officers of his 
family bore him to the grave ; the funeral service was 
read by the chaplain ; and the corpse was covered with 
earth." — Edinburgh Annual Register, 1808, p. 458. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 

I. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried* 

II. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 

The sods with our bayonets turning ; 
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 

And the lantern dimly burning. 

III. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; 
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 

With his martial cloak around him. 
IV. 
Few and short were the prayers we said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

V. 

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, 

And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, 
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 

And we far away on the billow ! 
VI. 
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — 
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 

In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 
VII. 
But half of our heavy task was done, 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 
And we heard the distant and random gun 

That the foe was suddenly firing. 



3i 



32 REMAINS OP 

VIII. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone — 

But we left him alone with his glory ! 

The principal errors in most of the copies of this po- 
em were pointed out by an early friend of the author 
in an eloquent letter, which appeared in the Morning 
Chronicle, October 29th, 1824. One error, however, 
which occurred in the first line of the third stanza, he 
omitted to correct. The word " confined" was substi- 
tuted for " enclosed," manifestly for the worse, as it 
appears somewhat artificial, and inconsistent with the 
nervous simplicity of thought and expression which 
marks the whole poem. The third line of the fourth 
stanza has been commonly altered thus — " on the face 
of the dead." I cannot forbear quoting the critical 
and just observations of the friend above mentioned, 
upon this unhappy error. " The expression as it has 
been printed, is common-place ; that for which it was 
ignorantly substituted, is original and affecting. The 
poet did not merely mean to tell us the fact, that the 
comrades of Moore gazed on the face of their dead 
chief, — but he meant to convey an idea of the impres- 
sion which that form of death made upon them. 
( They gazed on the face that ivas dead,' gives not 
merely the fact, but the sentiment of death. It is like 
some of those fine scriptural expressions where the 
simplest terms are exuberant with imagination. It in- 
timates the awful contrast between the heroic anima- 
tion which kindled up that countenance just before in 
action, and its now cold, ghastly, and appalling sereni- 
ty." — Upon another error which has universally pre- 
vailed, in the seventh stanza, the same eloquent friend 
has observed, " The third and fourth lines have been 
thus given, 

* And we heard by the distant and random gun, 
44 That the foe was suddenly firing : 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 33 

But it was originally written, 

* And we. heard the distant and random gun 
* Of the enemy suddenly firing.'* 

I need scarcely point out to any reader of the least 
poetic taste the superiority of this passage to the fic- 
titious one. The statement of the foe being sudden- 
ly firing, implies a new and vigorous attack, which was 
contrary to fact. The lines, as Wolfe wrote them, are 
better poetry, and more agreeable to truth. They rep- 
resent the enemy, who had come on with the flush of 
anticipated victory, now sullen in defeat, firing rather 
from vain irritation than useful valour, keeping up a 
show of hostilities by * the distant and random gun,' 
but not venturing on any fresh and animated onset. In 
this way, the passage becomes as picturesque as it is 
concise and energetic." 

It appears from the interesting conversation in which 
the above poem was assigned so high a place in the 
lyrical compositions of our language, that Campbell's 
Hohenlinden was also brought forward by some of the 
company as one of the finest specimens of the same or- 
der. This powerfully descriptive and sublime ode was 
a peculiar favourite with our author. The awful im- 
agery presented in such a rapid succession of bold and 
vivid flashes, — the burning thoughts which break forth 
in such condensed energy of expression, — and the in- 
cidental touches of deep and genuine pathos which 
characterise the whole poem, never failed intensely to 
affect his imagination, and to draw out the most raptu- 
rous expressions of admiration. It was, indeed, the 

* The writer of the above observation seems not to have been 
aware, that the fourth line of this stanza was at first written by the 
author as I have copied it. It was subsequently altered in the way 
he gives it, at the suggestion of a literary friend ; but it seems proper 
to print it as it actually stands in the author's own manuscript, from 
which I take it. There is no difference in sense ; but, perhaps, some 
may think the rhythm better as it was originally written. 



I 



34 REMAINS OF 

peculiar temperament of his mind, to display its emo- 
tions by the strongest outward demonstrations. 

Such were his intellectual sensibilities, and the cor- 
responding vivacity of his animal spirits, that the ex- 
citation of his feelings generally discovered itself by the 
most lively expressions, and sometimes by an unre- 
strained vehemence of gesticulation, which often af- 
forded amusement to his more sedate or less impressible 
acquaintances. 

Whenever in the company of his friends any thing 
occurred in his reading, or to his memory, which pow- 
erfully affected his imagination, he usually started from 
his seat, flung aside his chair, and paced about the 
room, giving vent to his admiration in repeated excla- 
mations of delight, and in gestures of the most anima- 
ted rapture. Nothing produced these emotions more 
strongly than music, of the pleasures of which he was 
in the highest degree susceptible. He had an ear form- 
ed to enjoy, in the most exquisite manner, the simplest 
melody or the richest harmony. With but little culti- 
vation, he had acquired sufficient skill in the theory of 
this accomplishment to relish its highest charms, and 
to exercise a discriminative taste in the appreciation of 
any composition or performance in that delightful art. 
Sacred music, above all, (especially the compositions 
of Handel) had the most subduing, the most transport- 
ing effect upon his feelings, and seemed to enliven and 
sublimate his devotion to the highest pitch. He under- 
stood and felt all the poetry of music, and was particu- 
larly felicitous in catching the spirit and character of a 
simple air or a national melody. One of two speci- 
mens of the adaptation of his poetical talents to such 
subjects may give some idea of this. 

He was so much struck by the grand national Span- 
ish air, " Viva el Rey Fernando," the first time he 
heard it played by a friend, that he immediately com- 
menced singing it over and over again, until he produ- 
ced an English song admirably suited to the tune. The 
air, which has the character of an animated march, 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 35 

opens in a strain of grandeur, and suddenly subsides, 
for a few bars, into a slow and pathetic modulation, 
from which it abruptly starts again into all the enthu- 
siasm of martial spirit. The words are happily adapted 
to these transitions; but the air should be known, in 
order that the merits of the song should be duly es- 
teemed. The first change in the expression of the air 
occurs at the ninth line of the song, and continues to 
the end of the twelfth line. 



SPANISH SONG. 
Jlxr — Viva el Rey Fernando. 

The chains of Spain are breaking — 
Let Gaul despair, and fly ; 

Her wrathful trumpet's speaking — 
Let tyrants hear, and die. 

Her standard o'er us arching 

Is burning red and far ; 
The soul of Spain is inarching 

In thunders to the war. — 
Look round your lovely Spain, 
And say, shall Gaul remain ? — 

Behold yon burning valley — 

Behold yon naked plain — 
Let us hear their drum — 
Let them come, let them come ' 

For vengeance and freedom rally, 

And, Spaniards ! onward for Spain ! 

Remember, remember Barossa — 
Remember Napoleon's chain — 
Remember your own Saragossa, 

And strike for the cause of Spain- 
Remember your own Saragossa, 
And onward, onward for Spain ! 



36> REMAINS OF 

The following little tale may serve to shew with 
what feeling and refinement of taste he entered into 
the spirit of our national melodies. It was designed as 
a characteristic introduction to the well-known and ad- 
mired song, — "The last Rose of Summer." 

This is the grave of Dermid : — he was the best min- 
strel among us all, — a youth of a romantic genius, and 
of the most tremulous and yet the most impetuous feel- 
ing. He knew all our old national airs, of every char- 
acter and description : according as his song was in a 
lofty or a mournful strain, the village represented a 
camp or a funeral ; but if Dermid were in his merry 
mood, the lads and lasses were hurried into dance with 
a giddy and irresistible gaiety. One day our chieftain 
committed a cruel and wanton outrage against one of 
our peaceful villagers. Dermid's harp was in his hand 
when he heard it. With all the thoughtlessness and 
independent sensibility of a poet's indignation, he 
struck the chords that never spoke without response, — 
and the detestation became universal. He was driven 
from amongst us by our enraged chief; and all his re- 
lations, and the maid he loved, attended our banished 
minstrel into the wide world. For three years there 
were no tidings of Dermid, and the song and dance 
were silent ; when one of our little boys came running 
in and told us that he saw Dermid approaching at a dis- 
tance. Instantly the whole village was in commotion ; 
the youths and maidens assembled on the green, and 
agreed to celebrate the arrival of their poet with a 
dance ; they fixed upon the air he was to play for them ; 
it was the merriest of his collection. The ring was 
formed ; — all looked eagerly towards the quarter from 
which he was to arrive, determined to greet their fa- 
vourite bard with a cheer. But they were checked 
the instant he appeared ; he came slowly and languidly 
and loiteringly along ; — his countenance had a cold, 
dim, and careless aspect, very different from that ex- 
pressive tearfulness which marked his features, even in 
his more melancholy moments : his harp was swinging 



THE REV. C WOLFE. 37 

heavily upon his arm ; — it seemed a burden to him ; 
it was much shattered, and some of the strings were 
broken. He looked at us for a few moments, — then, 
relapsing into vacancy, advanced, without quickening 
his pace, to his accustomed stone, and sat down in si- 
lence. After a pause, we ventured to ask him for his 
friends ; — he first looked up sharply in our faces, — next, 
down upon his harp, — then struck a few notes of a 
wild and desponding melody, which we had never heard 
before ; but his hand dropped, and he did not finish it. 
Again we paused — then, knowing well that if we could 
give the smallest mirthful impulse to his feelings, his 
whole soul would soon follow, we asked him for the 
merry air we had chosen. We were surprised at the 
readiness with which he seemed to comply ; — but it 
was the same wild and heart-breaking strain he had 
commenced. In fact, we found that the soul of the 
minstrel had become an entire void, except one solita- 
ry ray, that vibrated sluggishly through its very darkest 
part : it was like the sea in a dark calm, which you 
only know to be in motion by the panting which you 
hear ; he had totally forgotten every trace of his form- 
er strains, not only those that were more gay and airy, 
but even those of a more pensive cast ; and he had got 
in their stead that one dreary, single melody ; it was 
about a lonely rose that had outlived all his compan- 
ions ; this he continued singing and playing from day 
to, day, until he spread an unusual gloom over the 
whole village : he seemed to perceive it, for he retired 
to the churchyard, and remained singing it there to 
the day of his death. The afflicted constantly repair- 
ed to hear it, and he died singing it to a maid who had 
lost her lover. The orphans have learnt it, and still 
chant it over poor Dermid's grave. 

Another of his favourite melodies was the popular 
Irish air " Gramachree." He never heard it without 
being sensibly affected by its deep and tender expres- 
sion ; but he thought that no words had ever been 
written for it which came up to his idea of the peculiar 

4 



38 



REMAINS OF 



pathos which pervades the whole strain. He said they 
all appeared to him to want individuality of feeling. 
At the desire of a friend he gave his own conception 
of it in these verses, which it seems hard to read, per- 
haps impossible to hear sung, without tears. 



SONG. 

Air — Gramachree. 

I. 

If I had thought thon could'st have died, 

I might not weep for thee ; 
But I forgot, when by thy side, 

That thou could'st mortal be ; 
It never through my mind had past, 

The time would e'er be o'er, 
And I on thee should look my last, 

And thou should'st smile no more ! 

II. 

And still upon that face I look, 

And think 'twill smile again ; 
And still the thought I will not brook, 

That I must look in vain ! 
But when I speak — thou dost not say, 

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid ; 
And now I feel, as well I may, 

Sweet Mary ! thou art dead ! 

III. 

If thou would'st stay, e'en as thou art, 

All cold, and all serene — 
I still might press thy silent heart, 

And where thy smiles have been ! 
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, 

Thou seemest still mine own ; 
But there I lay thee in thy grave — 

And I am now alone ! 



THE REV. C. WOLFE $® 

IV. 

1 do not think, where'er thou art, 

Thou hast forgotten me ; 
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, 

In thinking too of thee : 
Yet there was round thee such a dawn 

Of light ne'er seen before, 
As fancy never could have drawn, 

And never can restore ! 



He was asked whether he had any real incident in 
view, or had witnessed any immediate occurrence 
which might have prompted these lines. His reply 
was, " He had not ; but that he had sung the air over 
and over till he burst into a flood of tears, in which 
mood he composed the words." 

The following song was written, at the request of a 
lady of high professional character as a musician, for 
an air of her own composition, which I believe was 
never published : — 



SONG. 
I. 

Go, forget me — why should sorrow 
O'er that brow a shadow fling ? 

Go, forget me — and to-morrow 
Brightly smile and sweetly sing. 

Smile — though I shall not be" near thee : 

Sing — though I shall never hear thee : 
May thy soul with pleasure shine 
Lasting as the gloom of mine ! 

Go, forget me, &c. 

II. 

Like the Sun, thy presence glowing, 
Clothes the meanest things in light j; 

And when thou, like him art going, 
Loveliest objects fade in night. 



40 REMAINS OF 

All things look'd so bright about thee, 
That they nothing seem without thee ; 
By that pure and lucid mind 
Earthly things were too refined. 
Like the Sun, &c. 

III. 

Go, thou vision wildly gleaming, 
Softly on my soul that fell ; 

Go, for me no longer beaming — 
Hope and Beauty ! fare ye well ! 

Go, and all that once delighted 

Take, and leave me all benighted ; 
Glory's burning — generous swell, 
Fancy and the Poet's shell. 

Go, thou vision, &c. 



THE FRAILTY OF BEAUTY. 

I. 

I must tune up my harp's broken string, 
For the fair has commanded the strain ; 

But yet such a theme will I sing, 
That 1 think she'll not ask me again : 

II. 

For I'll tell her — Youth's blossom is blown, 
And that Beauty, the flower, must fade ; 

(And sure, if a lady can frown, 
She'll frown at the words I have said.) 
III. 

The smiles of the rose-bud how fleet ! 

They come. — and as quickly they fly : 
The violet how modest and sweet I 

Yet the Spring sees it open and die. 
IV. 

How snow-white the lily appears ! 

Yet the life of a lily 's a day ; 
And the snow that it equals, in tears 

To-morrow must vanish away. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 

V. 

Ah, Beauty ! of all things on earth 
How many thy charms most desire ! 

Yet Beauty with Youth has its birth, — 
And Beauty with Youth must expire. 

VI. 

Ah, fair ones ! so sad is the tale, 
That my song in my sorrow I steep ; 

And where I intended to rail, 
I must lay down my harp, and must weep. 

VII. 

But Virtue indignantly seized 
The harp as it fell from my hand ; 

Serene was her look, though displeased, 
And she utter'd her awful command. 

VIII. 

" Thy tears and thy pity employ 

" For the thoughtless, the giddy, the vain- 
" But those who my blessings enjoy 

" Thy tears and thy pity disdain. 

IX. 

" For Beauty alone ne'er bestow 'd 
" Such a charm as Religion has lent ; 

" And the cheek of a belle never glow'd 
" With a smile like the smile of content. 

X. 

" Time's hand, and the pestilence-rage, 
" No hue, no complexion can brave ; 

** For Beauty must yield to old age, 
** But I will not yield to the grave." 



41 



The history of Mr. Wolfe's college life is too defi- 
cient in incidents of general interest to dwell minutely 
upon it. He never took any share in concerns of a 

public nature ; but, on the contrary, endeavoured to 

4# 



42 REMAINS OF 

shun all occasions of notoriety. This portion of his 
life, accordingly, supplies but little other materials for 
his memoir than a short account of his studies, and of 
his few desultory poetical efforts. Before we enter upon 
the more important part of his life, or attempt to ex- 
hibit his character in its more serious aspect, it may be 
well to collect together, in this part of the volume, the 
principal compositions by which he distinguished him- 
self amongst his fellow-students, and gave so fair a 
promise of future celebrity. Two of those which ob- 
tained medals in the Historical Society shall be given 
here at full length, and such parts of his speech on 
opening the sessions as the editor has been able to 
collect with accuracy from the mutilated fragments of 
the manuscript. 

The prose composition which follows will be princi- 
pally interesting to those who are conversant with the 
usual course of academic studies. It seems unneces- 
sary to add any explanatory notes for such readers ; and 
perhaps no helps of this kind, that would not be abso- 
lutely tedious, could materially heighten the interest to 
others. 

Its general design and manner may possibly remind 
some readers of a beautiful paper by Addison, in the 
Tatler, called, " The vision of the Hill of Fame." I do 
not know that the author was acquainted with it : but 
even though it may possibly have suggested the outline 
of the plan to his mind, it will be found that the image- 
ry and descriptive parts are perfectly original. In two 
or three instances, the same characters which are intro- 
duced in this vision appear in that of Addison ; but it 
will probably be allowed that the peculiar genius and 
character of each is more distinctly and fully brought 
to light in this little work of fancy, and that, on the 
whole, it need scarcely shrink from a comparison with 
the beautiful paper above mentioned. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 43 



THE COLLEGE COURSE. 

At the close of that eventful day — to me the period 
of a new existence, and the date to which I yet refer 
many a pleasure and many a pain — on which I became 
the adopted son of the university, I lay for a long time 
pensive and sleepless, pondering on the state into 
which I had entered, and anxious to ascertain what 
treatment I was to expect from my second mother ; till 
at length, though not naturally superstitious, I took my 
gown, as yet perfect and untorn, and folding it up with 
a sort of sacred awe, (not totally devoid of pride at my 
new dignity,) I placed it on the bed, and, blessing the 
omen, reclined my head upon this academic pillow. 
You smile, no doubt, at the account — I have often 
smiled at the recollection of it myself — and yet the 
charm was successful ; for scarcely had I closed my 
eyes, before it raised a vision which I shall never for- 
get, and upon the remembrance of which, whether in 
the midst of occupation or the midst of sorrows, I have 
often lingered with fondness. 

I fancied myself in front of those awful portals, from 
which I had that day, for the first time, emerged. They 
opened spontaneously ; and I beheld a monster of a 
most extraordinary appearance seated in the entrance. 
He had three heads ; and a poet would have called him 
Cerberus ; but I, to whom nature never gave a simile, 
discovered his name to be Syllogism. Two of the heads 
grew from the same neck ; one larger than the other. 
The third grew from the other two, and always leaned 
to the weaker side. It seemed not to have any thing 
original ; but catching at the words which fell at one 
time from the greater head, and at the other from the 
smaller, it formed a ludicrous combination from both. 
They all talked with a sort of harsh and systematic 
volubility ; and yet I was surprised to find, that their 
whole grammar consisted of one verb, one case, and 
one rule in syntax. At this moment, an old man ad- 



44 REMAINS OF 

vanced, of a most venerable and commanding appear- 
ance ; and Syllogism shrunk at his approach. Instant- 
ly I felt as if my mind was unfolding itself, and that 
the recesses of my heart, and the springs of my feel- 
ings, were thrown open to his view. His visage was 
emaciated with cares, but they were not the cares of 
the world ; his cheeks were pale with watching, but 
they were not the vigils of avaiice. He turned to me 
with a look of encouragement, and unfolded to my 
eyes a map the most magnificent I had ever beheld — 
it was a map of the intellect. There I saw a thousand 
rivers, and thousands and ten thousands of rills and 
rivulets branching from them ; yet all these he traced 
to two grand sources; and the mountains whence those 
sources issued, he told me, reached to heaven : and for 
that very reason, clouds and impenetrable darkness 
enveloped them. He then pursued them through all 
thpir windings, — pausing, at times, to shew the delight- 
ful verdure of their banks — their mild and equable 
flow — and often pointing to the dreary desert occasion- 
ed by their absence, and the frightful precipice by their 
torrents. At length he traced them to the one grand 
ocean — the ocean of knowledge. On this were innu- 
merable straits and quicksands : and he shewed me the 
waiers of probability, and the wrecks of millions who 
had mistaken their soundings : and lastly, those vast 
polar waters which the Deity had locked with barriers 
of eternal ice, and from which, those who entered them 
returned no more. I observed that he was rather 
garrulous and fond of repetition ; but I checked any 
disrespectful idea that might occur, by recollecting it 
was the effect of his condescension. He waved the 
roll at his departure ; and retiring, he left me in admi- 
ration. 

The next was one whose steps were irregularly slow, 
and his paces measured with extreme exactness. His 
eye was rivetted upon a chain which he w.is slowly link- 
ing ; the links were eternal adamant, and the chain was 
indissoluble. His look was the most contemplative I 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 45 

had ever beheld : Reason seemed totally to have ex- 
pelled all the passions, (which frequently share, and 
sometimes usurp her throne,) and to reign uncontrolled 
upon his brow ; until, at the close of about five min- 
utes, when he had accomplished some happy link in his 
chain, he gave a start of ecstacy, and Reason seemed 
to share her throne with Joy, and to reign triumphant 
and combined upon his brow. Two other sages then 
approached hiin, and from their conference, I collect- 
ed that these two were Plato and Pythagoras ; and that 
their intention was to lay the foundation of their tem- 
ple of science. Pythagoras laid the corner stone : all 
mutually contributed their labours ; but I observed that 
they consigned to the first the arrangement of the ma- 
terials. More than half the work was effected, when 
their strength began to droop, and I trembled for the 
temple, — I trembled for mankind ; when a youth ad- 
vanced, arrayed in a robe depicted with strange sym- 
bols and characters ; his language was almost wholly 
numerical, so that I could not discover the country from 
which he came ; but I believe he was an Arab : he 
joined them with alacrity ; and the foundation was com- 
plete. 

Just at that moment a flourish of martial music as- 
sailed my ear, so grand that Plato, Pythagoras, and the 
temple were forgotten, and every sense was directed to 
the quarter whence it issued. A flood of glory envel- 
oped him who entered, and concealed him, at first, 
from my view ; but I heard the thunder of his foot- 
steps. At length, I perceived an old man of the most 
august deportment : gods and men appeared to obey 
him ; for he raised his sceptre to heaven, and it thun- 
dered ; he stretched it over the earth, and a shock of a 
thousand armies was heard ; he struck the ground, and 
the groans of Erebus arose. His garment flowed loose 
and unrestrained ; and a crown of immortal amaranths 
overshadowed his brow, in artless and unarranged lux- 
uriance. I now found that I had known him long be- 
fore ; the fire of heaven was in his eyes ; and this was 



46 REMAINS OF 

the cause that I did not at first recollect that I had 
known him before ; for then he was blind ; but the 
powers of darkness could no longer control them, and 
they had " burst their cerements." I knew him now; 
and knowing him, I almost instinctively looked for an- 
other, and that other came. Unlike the rapid step of 
the former, his was composed and majestic ; his gar- 
ment flowed — not unrestrained, but was adjusted with 
the most graceful and admirable symmetry : his wreath 
was not so luxuriant, but selected and combined with a 
taste the most fascinating and charming : he held a 
golden ploughshare in his right hand, and in his left 
a rich cluster of grapes ; while bees fluttered in harm- 
less swarms around his garland. He approached the 
first with a timid and hesitating step, and plucked 
some of the amaranths from his crown : the first turned 
to detect the theft ; but when he perceived the exqui- 
site judgment with which they were disposed, he beam- 
ed forth an immortal smile of approbation : it was the 
smile of Apollo upon Mercury, when he found that he 
had stolen his arrows. 

Then came one in whose sparkling eye and rosy 
cheeks, wit and good humour for ever beamed. I found 
I had known him before ; and I confess I had the im- 
pudence to run and shake hands with him. His crown 
was of almost every leaf and flower that the earth pro- 
duces ; among the rest, the myrtle of Venus, and the 
vine-leaf of Bacchus. At one time he gave enforce- 
ment to virtue and morality, with as much gravity as he 
could command ; at another, he handed me a goblet 
with an enchanting familiarity. I observed that he had 
an arrow from the quiver of Cupid ; yet, as soon as he 
had anointed it with a juice he had obtained from Mo- 
mus, it became the shaft of Satire. At length he reti- 
red, and bidding me not to forget the happy hours we 
had spent together, he followed the other two. — Fare- 
well, immortal bards, I will not forget you : I will often 
turn from occupation and the world to you ; and even 
when I enter on paths strewed with the flowers of oth- 



THE REV. C. WOLFE, 47 

er poets, I will remember that many of the sweetest are 
yours ! 

Then appeared a hero in a Grecian habit, who seem- 
ed deeply intent upon delineating a portrait, and, from 
the inscription, 1 perceived it to be that of Socrates. 
When it was perfected, he suddenly dropped the por- 
trait, and grasped his sword, but still retained the pen ; 
at the same time, an invisible hand spread the spoils of 
Persia over his shoulders. 

Next came a Roman, whose words and appearance 
were widely at variance ; his loose garments indicated 
his dissolute life, while his language was chaste and 
succinct ; his gestures indicated the debauchee, while 
historic truih and philosophic morality issued from his 
tongue. 

The next was in the habit of a Carthaginian slave : 
modest wit and unaffected humour came in all the sim- 
plicity of nature from his lips : he held a volume which 
he incessantly studied, and in which I perceived the 
name of Menander. I then saw one whose face it was 
impossible to behold without laughter : — the most poig- 
nant and yet the most indirect satire was depicted in every 
feature. I knew that he was a native of the East, as 
he discharged his arrows in the Parthian method ; but 
he wore a Grecian garment, so truly graceful and gen- 
uine, that it would not have disgraced the wardrobe of 
Plato. Still I could not help feeling some indignation, 
when I saw him point his arrow in the direction in 
which Homer departed, and set his foot upon the im- 
age which Xenophon had dropt. I believe he perceiv- 
ed my displeasure ; for he turned, and handing me 
three volumes, which I found to be Herodotus, Thu- 
cydides, and Xenophon, accompanied them with such 
a beautiful flow of precepts upon the mode in which I 
should imitate them, that I totally forgot my resent- 
ment. 

Two others then appeared, similar in many respects, 
yet possessing some striking marks of difference. The 
first wielded a vengeful lash, under which folly and 



48 



REMAINS OF 



vice writhed in torture. Bold, intrepid, and open was 
his brow ; and as the streams of satire issued from his 
tongue, Rome seemed to rise with all its debauchery 
before me ; — yet, once that he extended his theme to 
mankind in general, Rome and its peculiarities were 
forgotten, and he burst forth into a strain of such sub- 
lime morality, that I listened in expectation that, in 
the next sentence, I should hear the name of Christ 
issuing from his lips. The second who appeared used 
the lash with the same adroitness and severity, but 
with more caution. He seemed fearful of detection : — 
his face was muffled in such a manner, that many words 
escaped my ear, and therefore I could not always fully 
understand him. 

Scarcely had they departed, when I thought I heard 
the shout of countless multitudes ; and a Grecian and 
a Roman entered, both in the attitude of speaking. 
The first looked like Jove haranguing the gods. The 
thunder seemed to issue from his tongue, and the light- 
ning from his eye ; he stopped not to ornament, but ail 
was irresistibly simple and commanding. But the 
second put me in mind of 'Apollo : — the Graces and 
the Muses seemed to throng around the rostra on which 
he stood : the music of Helicon was on his lips ; and 
his eye, though devoid of the lightning of the former, 
beamed with a steady and diffusive light, — an eye that 
told all that was within, and collected all that was with- 
out. The first clanked a massy chain, and defied me 
to elude it ; the second, ere I was aware, had silently 
entangled me in golden shackles. A civic crown ap- 
peared to descend, and was just lighting upon the head 
of the first, when I beheld one hastily advance, and 
attempt to withdraw it ; he was equal to his antagonist 
in agility, but inferior in strength, and after a de-perate 
contest he was compelled to yield, and the crown rest- 
ed for ever on the victor's brow. Over the head of the 
last was inscribed, in characters of living gold, " Pater 
Patriae, " — and tyrants, usurpers, women, and hirelings, 
eagerly attempted in vain to erase it. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 49 

But who can describe the scene that followed ? — a 
scene of stupendous grandeur and overwhelming mag- 
nificence. For then advanced the man of science — 
the priest of nature, who cast a long and venturous 
look into the holy of holies ! the sanctuary of crea- 
tion. Heaven and Earth saluted him — the Elements 
paid him homage, and Nature gave a burst of univer- 
sal gratulation. He waved his wand, — and it seemed 
as if a vast curtain had been withdrawn from ti,e face 
of heaven, and I saw the Sun with all his satellites in 
tenfold magnitude and splendour, as if just fresh from 
the Creator ; the print of his hand was upon them ; 
and the traces of his finger when he described the or- 
bits in which they should move, were visible ; the har- 
mony of their motions was so great that it could not 
be confined to one sense ; the harps of cherubim and 
seraphim beat time to their movements ; — " the morning 
stars were singing together, and all the sons of God 
were shouting for joy." 1 looked again at the sage : — 
angels and archangels were conversing with him, and 
were revealing to him the mysteries of the universe. 
After some interval, he stooped to the earth, — and a 
voice, (as it were) from the bowels of the earth, seem- 
ed to declare the secrets of its prison-house, and the 
power of that tremendous grasp which holds the world 
together. Instantly a great number of philosophers 
crowded around him to catch the sound of the voice : 
each, according to the different words which he caught, 
formed some peculiar instrument, either of surprising 
efficacy, or beautiful construction. Still I never with- 
drew my eyes from him, upon whom indeed all eyes 
were intent ; and I beheld a rainbow, like a glory, en- 
circling his brow ; and the seven colours of heaven 
beamed with a living lustre around him. 

I know not how to describe the ludicrous circum- 
stance which drew my attention from a scene so en«^ 
chanting ; I saw a figure approach, which I did not at 
first perceive to be myself, so tattered and disfigured 
was my academic dress ; while I was looking at my- 

5 



50 REMAINS OF 

self with the most sincere mortification,* my gown be- 
gan gradually to gather itself into large and graceful 
folds above my whole person ; the sleeves began to 
lengthen ; and a sleek velvet overspread the unsightly 
pasteboard of my cap. I assure you, I gazed with 
perfect self-conceit upon the improvement of my cos- 
tume ; but I was soon roused from my dream of vanity, 
by the appearance of Archimedes weighing the king of 
Syracuse's crown in water, and detecting the fraud of 
its master. 

Then advanced two buskined Grecians, both in long 
and sweeping garments, who looked with an eye of 
jealousy upon each other, and often related the same 
tale in different style and language, but still with all its 
shades of sorrow and horror. Their voices both seem- 
ed to have softened down the deep-toned thunder of 
Homer, into the refined tenderness of Athenian music. 
They were attended by a band of virgins, who mim- 
icked all their motions, — wept as they wept, and raged 
as they raged Their language was sometimes so enig- 
matical, that, but for their beauty, I should have taken 
them for sphinxes. 

The last of that illustrious train which my vision 
presented, unfolded an immense picture, where I saw 
Rome in all and throvgh all its vicissitudes. I saw it 
rising under Romulus, — and sinking beneath the Gauls, 
— reviving under Camillus, — trembling befoie Hanni- 
bal, — triumphant with Scipio, — the mistress of the 
world beneath Augustus. But alas ! a large and bril- 
liant portion was lacerated and defaced ; and I, in the 
warmth of my emotions, cursed the unclassichand that 
could mar so fair a picture. I then heard a confused 
noise of Reason, right Reason, Obligation, Govern- 
ment, — when, unluckily, my cap, which I had hung but 
loosely on a peg, fell and awoke me. I must how- 
ever remark, that there were many forms, in academic 

* It may be proper to observe, that this alludes to the change of 
academic costume upon obtaining a scholarship, which honourable 
distinction he had just then acquired. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 



51 



dresses, passing to and fro during my dream, which I 
did not then notice, but which I have since learnt to 
value most dearly ; friends, who have since formed the 
brightest parts of the picture, and without whom, the 
beauties of the rest would to me have almost termina- 
ted with the vision in which they appeared ; — friends, 
to whom I have turned from the page of Horace, to re- 
alize the scenes he has described ; whose kindness has 
assisted me, — whose generosity has upheld me, — and 
whose conversation has heightened my hours of pleas- 
ure, and mitigated my days of despair : and when I 
shall revert from the toils of manhood, and the imbe- 
cility of age, to this youthful period, it shall not be one 
of my least gratifications to recollect, that while I was 
employed in cultivating an acquaintance with the illus- 
strious dead, I did not neglect to form a still more en- 
dearing attachment to the living. 



PATRIOTISM. 

Angels of glory ! came she not from you ? 

Are there not patriots in the heav'n of heav'ns 1 

And hath not every seraph some dear spot — 

Throughout th' expanse of worlds some favourite home 

On which he fixes with domestic fondness ? 

Doth not e'en Michael on his seat of fire, 

Close to the footstool of the throne of God, 

Rest on his harp awhile, and from the face 

And burning glories of the Deity, 

Loosen his rivetted and raptured gaze, 

To bend one bright, one transient downward glance, 

One patriot look upon his native star ? 

Or do I err ? — and is your bliss complete, 

Without one spot to claim your warmer smile, 

And e'en an angel's partiality ? 

And is that passion, which we deem divine, 

Which makes the timid brave, the brave resistless,— 

Makes men seem heroes, — heroes, demigods — 

A poor, mere mortal feeling ? — No ! 'tis false ! 

The Deity himself proves it divine ; 



53 REMAINS OF 

For when the Deity conversed with men, 

He was himself a Patriot !* — to the earth — 

To all mankind a Saviour was he sent, 

And all he loved with a Redeemer's love ; 

Yet still, his warmest love, his tenderest care, 

His life, his heart, his blessings, and his mournings, 

His smiles, his tears, he gave to thee, Jerusalem — 

To thee, his country ! — Though, with a prophet's gaze, 

He saw the future sorrows of the world ; 

And all the miseries of the human race, 

From age to age, rehearsed their parts before him jj 

Though he beheld the fall of gasping Rome, 

Crush'd by descending Vandals ; though he heard 

The shriek of Poland, when the spoilers came ; 

Though he saw Europe in the conflagration 

Which now is burning, and his eye could pierce 



* The observation of Bishop Newton upon the passage of Scripture 
thus-- alluded to, may be introduced here as authority for the boldness 
of this expression. — " So deeply was our Saviour affected, and so ten- 
derly did he lament over the calamities which were coming upon his 
nation ! Such a generous and amiable pattern of a. patriot-spirit hath 
he left to his disciples, and so contrary to truth is the insinuation of a 
noble writer, that there is nothing in the Gospels to recommend and 
encourage the love of one's country !" — 18th Dissert, on the Prophe- 
cies, vol. ii. p. 138. 

I beg leave to add a quotation from Brown's admirable Essays on 
Lord Shaftesbury's Characteristics. To the objection of the noble 
writer, that " Christianity does not enjoin a zeal for the public and our 
country," — it is thus replied : " If by zeal for the public, and love of 
our country be meant such a regard to its welfare as shall induce us to 
sacrifice every view of private interest for its establishment, yet still 
in subordination to the greater law of universal justice, — that is natu- 
rally, nay, necessarily involved in the law of universal charity. The 
noble writer indeed affirms, that it is no essential part of the Chris- 
tian's charity. On the contrary, it is a chief part of the Christian's 
charity. It comes nobly recommended by the examples of Jesus and 
St. Paul ; the one wept over the approaching desolation of his coun- 
try ; the other declared his willingness to be cut off from the Christian 
community, if by this means he might save his countrymen." Speak- 
ing of the principle of universal love, in which this natural affection is 
included, the same author observes : " Christianity alone hath kindled 
in the heart of man this vital principle, which, beaming there as from 
a centre, like the great fountain of light and life that sustains and 
cheers the attendant planets, renders its proselytes indeed burning; 
and shining lights, shedding their kindly influence on all around them 
in that just proportion which their respective distances may demand." 
—Pp. 231, 236.— Editor. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 

The coming woes that we have yet to feel ; — 

Yet still, o'er Sion's walls alone he hung ; 

Thought of no trench but that round Sion cast ; 

Beheld no widows mourn, but Israel's daughters ; 

Beheld no slaughter but of Judah's sons — 

On them alone the tears of Heav'n he dropp'd ; 

Dwelt on the horrors of their fall — and sigh'd, 

M Hadst thou but known, even thou in this thy day, 

" The things which do belong unto thy peace, — 

" Hadst thou, O hadst thou known, Jerusalem !" — 

Yet well he knew what anguish should be his 

From those he wept for ; well did he foresee 

The scourge — the thorns — the cross — the agony 5 

Yet still, how oft upon thy sons he laid 

The hands of health ; how oft beneath his wing 

Thy children would have gather'd, O Jerusalem ! — 

Thou art not mortal — thou didst come from Heav'11, 

Spirit of patriotism ! thou art divine ! 

Then, seraph ! where thy first descent on earth f 

Heav'n's hallelujahs, for what soil abandon'd ? — 

Close by the side of Adam, ere he woke 

Into existence, was thy hallowed stand ; 

On Eden, and on thee, his eyes unclosed : 

For say, — instead of wisdom's sacred tree, 

And its sweet fatal fruit, had Heav'n denied 

His daily visit to his natal spot, — 

Say, could our father boast one day's obedience ?— 

And wherefore, Eden, when he pass'd for ever 

Thy gates, in slow and silent bitterness, — 

Why did he turn that look of bursting anguish 

Upon thy fruits, thy groves, thy vales, thy fountains, 

And why inhale with agonising fervour 

The last — last breeze that blew from thee upon him ?.— ■ 

'Twas not alone because thy fruits were sweet — 

Thy groves were music — and thy fountains, health — 

Thy breezes, balm — thy valleys, loveliness ; 

But that they were the first his ear, eye, taste, 

Or smell, or feeling had perceived or tasted, 

Heard, seen, inhaled ; — because thou wert his country! 

Yes, frail and sorrowing sire, thy sons forgive thee ! 

5* 



53 



54 REMAINS OF 

True, thou hast lost us Eden and its joys, 

But thou hast suffer'd doubly by the loss ! 

We were not born there — it was not our country ! 

O holy Angel -' thou hast given us each 

This substitute for Paradise ; with thee, 

The vale of snow may be our summer walk ; 

The pointed rock, the bower of our repose ; 

The cataract, our music ; while, for food, 

Thy fingers, icy-cold, perhaps may pluck 

The mountain-berry ; yet, with thee, we'll smile — 

Nor shiver, when we hear, that father Adam 

Once lived in brighter climes, on sweeter food. — 

But, ah ! at least to this our second Eden 

Permit no artful serpent to approach ; 

Let no foul traitor grasp at fruits which thou 

Hast interdicted ; and no sword of flame 

Flash forth despair, and wave us to our exile. 

Yet, rather than that I should rise in shame 

Upon my country's downfall, or should draw 

One tear from her, or e'en one frown from thee — 

Rather than that I should approach her walls, 

Like Caius Marcius, with her foes combined, 

Or turn, like Sylla, her own sons upon her, — 

Let me sit down in silence, by thy side, 

Upon the banks of Babylon, — and weep, 

When we remember all that we have lost : 

Nor shall we always on the stranger's willow 

Allow our harp in sorrow to repose ; 

But when thy converse has inspired my soul, 

Roused it to frenzy, taught me to forget 

Distance, and time, and place, and wo, and exile, 

And I no more behold Euphrates' bank, 

And hearno more the clanking of my fetters, — 

Then, in thy fervours, shalt thou snatch thy harp, 

And strike me one of Sion's loftiest songs, 

Until I pour my soul upon the notes — 

Deep from my heart — and they shall waft it home. 

OErin ! O my mother ! I will love thee ! 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 

Whether upon thy green, Atlantic throne, 

Thousitt'st august, majestic, and sublime ; 

Or on thy empire's last remaining fragment, 

Bendest forlorn, dejected and forsaken, — 

Thy smiles, thy tears, thy blessings, and thy woes,. 

Thy glory and thy infamy, be mine ! 

Should Heav'n but teach me to display my heart, 

With Deborah's notes thy triumphs would I sing — 

Would weep thy woes with Jeremiah's tears ; 

But for a. warning voice, which though thy fall 

Had been begun, should check thee in mid-air, — 

Isaiah's lips of fire should utter, Hold ! — 

Not e'en thy vices can withdraw me from thee ; — 

Thy crimes I'd shun — thyself 'would still embrace ; 

For, e'en to me, Omnipotence might grant 

To be the " tenth just man," to save thee, Erin ! — 

And when I leave thee, should the lowest seat 

In heav'n be mine, — should smiling mercy grant 

One dim and distant vision of its glories, — 

Then if the least of all the blest can mix 

With heaven one thought of earth, — I'll think of thee I 



55 



The fragments of the speech delivered from the 
chair, in the Historical Society, which shall now be 
presented to the reader, can give but an imperfect idea 
of its merits as a whole ; however, they may serve to 
exhibit the character of his mind at that early period 
of his life, and afford an interesting ground of compari- 
son between his juvenile efforts as <i speaker, and his 
graver exertions in maturer years, when the sublime 
realities of religion had more fully engaged those sen- 
sibilities which were now so keenly alive to the romance 
of poetry and the charms of general literature. 

After a modest and appropriate introduction, and a 
high panegyric on the objects and constitution of the 
society he was addressing, the speaker thus, pro- 
ceeds : — 



56 REMAINS OF 

She (the Historical Society) sends her ambassador, 
to recall the wavering and disaffected to their allegi- 
ance, by displaying the beauties of her constitution ; 
that you may not desert the station for which nature 
and education have designed you ; that you should not 
dare to frustrate a nation's hope, which looks to you 
for the guardians of her laws and the champions of her 
political prosperity ; that you should not presume to 
neglect the voice of your God, who demands from 
among you the supports of his church ; that a portion 
of mind, — a mass of concentrated intellect, may issue 
from these walls, and overshadow the land ; and that, 
at length, after a glorious career of enlightened and 
diffusive utility, you may retire with dignity from the 
part you have acted, and Ireland command posterity to 
imitate your example. Such are the objects to which 
you are now invited, from low pursuits and sordid 
gratifications. 

tP 9r tt t£ w 

Poetry* demands no laborious intellectual intensity 
to imbibe her angelic counsels ; it is upon the hours of 
our pleasures she descends ; it is our recreation she 
exalts. Thus, she makes our hours of rapture or en- 
joyment, the hours of our greatest elevation of soul : 
our relaxations become the most dignified moments of 
our existence. 

Will Science bend from her throne, or Philosophy 
relax her stateliness, to attend us in our brighter mo- 
ments and regulate our pleasures ? Science and Philos- 
ophy we must follow for their favours ; but lovely, love- 
ly Poetry condescends to be our companion. Poetry 
possesses an attribute of which all her sisters are des- 
titute. The mind must conform itself to them ; but 
Poetry conforms herself to the mind : she accompanies 

* The introductory part of the subject of Poetry (which those who 
heard the speech delivered can recollect as peculiarly happy,) is not 
to be found amongst the loose papers from which these fragments are 
transcribed. This will account for the abruptness with which this 
part commences. — Editor. 



THE RET. C. WOLFE* 57 

it in every varied posture and every delicate inflection^ 
— in buoyancy, and exertion, and indolerice. 

It is this insinuation into all our pleasures, which 
gives her a species of omnipresence ; for, to him who 
loves her, — where is not Poetry ? * * * 

And believe not those who tell you that she will se- 
duce the youthful mind from severe occupations — that 
science is excluded from her power, and philosophy 
from the heaven of her conversation. In the first ages 
of man, the Sciences entered the world in the disguise 
of Poetry. Morality it not only taught but impelled. 
Instruction was conveyed not by preceptive sternness, 
but by the burst of inspiration. The bard was then 
all in all. He accounted for the phenomena of nature ; 
he inquired into the essence of the mind ; and the 
savage looked up to him for the ethics that were to reg- 
ulate his conduct. Poetry (it is known) had an early 
and intimate connexion with Astronomy : some say 
that she was born in yonder starry sphere, — that she 
first descended upon man, in the dews of heaven, while 
gazing on the firmament ; and the first music that 
saluted mortal ears, was the harmony of the morning 
stars : and, in process of greater refinement, when 
Poetry and Philosophy were necessarily distinguished, 
yet did their union and attachment still remain. To- 
gether they visited the same happy plains : the Muses 
danced in the groves of Academus : and Greece gave 
the world at once its sages and its bards. 

But didactic poetry not only admits, but requires the 
co-operation of Philosophy and Science ; and our bold 
and independent language, by removing the barriers of 
rhyme, has thrown open to both a wider range for 
combined exertion. Then doubt not the rapturous ex- 
clamation of that sightless bard, who could penetrate 
all the mysteries of the one, and tasted all the joys and 
consolations of the other, when he cried in admiration, 

" How charming is divine Philosophy !" 

for he found it 

" musical as is Apollo's lyre." 



5S REMAINS OP 

O divine preceptress! that extinguishes no youthful 
ardour, but sends it kindling up to heaven, — that col- 
lects all the riches of the material creation, to beautify 
and illustrate the moral world, — that, by instilling ad- 
miration of what is lovely and sublime, assimilates the 
soul to what it admires, — that, setting unattainable per- 
fection in the eye of youth, yet renders it so fascinating 
that he cannot but proceed. 

# # # # # 

But the science which Poetry loves most to study and 
to inculcate, is the philosophy of human nature, — the 
science of the human heart. The man of the world 
will tell you that he understands it, and will send you 
to the world as the source of his knowledge. He has 
collected a few loathsome and selfish depravities, and 
bestows them, without distinction of character, as the 
attributes of the whole human race ; and the result of 
all his important calculations, mighty researches, and 
accumulated experience, is caution, distrust, and a con- 
tracted heart. But do not you likewise ; do you look 
upon your common nature with hearts full of sensibili- 
ty ; weak as it is, contemplate its grand and generous 
faculties, as well as its baser ingredients ; — let it be 
yours to pity — perhaps to improve it. Poetry, both 
ancient and modern, presents the heart and passions 
perpetually to our contemplation. 

# # # * * 

The criticism of Poetry is perhaps the best introduc- 
tion to an analysis of the human mind. The dreari- 
ness of metaphysical abstraction has often deterred 
genius from attempting a rugged pursuit, in which the 
mind is almost always fugitive, and will not pause to 
admit of a near inspection : but to ascertain the nature 
of the sublime, the beautiful, and picturesque,— to in- 
vestigate the sources of our purest pleasures, and cul- 
tivate a taste, quick, delicate, and philosophical, — these 
bestow a gracefulnes and elegance upon metaphysical 
disquisitions, that relax their sternness, and invite to 
more profound investigation. Nor would they merely 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 59 

invite, — they would advance, they would enliven our 
progress ; and a sensibility of taste would make us ac- 
quainted with many a posture, and many a nice inflec- 
tion of the mind, which logical and unrefined penetra- 
tion would never have discovered. 

# * # # * 

But the man of the world interposes, and tells us our 
joys are but ideal. Poor wretch ! and what are your 
realities 1 The smile of capricious royalty, which the 
next hour's detraction may turn to a frown ; the shout 
of a stupid multitude, which scarcely waits a change of 
sentiment before it becomes the hiss of detestation ; 
the roar of nocturnal intemperance, which soon dies 
away in the groans of an expiring constitution ; a cat- 
alogue of possessions, which extravagance may dissi- 
pate, which the robber may enjoy, and which war and 
the elements may annihilate ; and, when sorrow and 
misfortune shall send you to your own heart for conso- 
lation, you will find it without imagination, to enliven, 
and yet without sensibility enough to break it. — Give 
me my visions and my phantoms again ; they will not 
desert me, — phantoms as they are, the world has not 
the magic to dispel them ; they shall still remain to 
give rapture to my joy and alleviation to my sorrows ; 
for gracious Nature has decreed that imagination shall 
survive when friends and fortune have forsaken us : 
nay, even when reason itself has departed, and even 
when the noblest of our faculties is fled, not madness 
itself should quench that loveliest one : and well did 
the Grecian bard attest his conviction that the Muse 
would not abandon her afflicted votaries, when, amid 
the horrors of shipwreck, the poet stood naked over 
the ruins of his fortune, and said, " I have lost no- 
thing." Yet, once he had enjoyed all the pomp and 
magnificence of courts, and all the luxury that afflu- 
ence could procure ; but well he knew that winds and 
waves could not waft him from his Muse. They might 
fling him in mid-ocean, and one single, solitary rock, 
amid the wilderness of waters, might be his home, — 



60 REMAINS OF 

yet even there the Mus? would follow ; — she would seat 
him on the topmost crag, and place all the grandeur of 
sky and ocean beneath his dominion, — the riches of the 
firmament, 

" And all the dread magnificence of heaven." 

He would exult in the terrors of the deep, and hold 
mysterious converse with the genius of the storm ; — 
the very desolation that surrounded him wouid minis- 
ter to his pleasures, and add a fearful enthusiasm to his 
contemplations. Nor, to these alone would his enjoy- 
ments be confined : but, while he seemed chained by 
nature to the rock on which he sat, his soul might be 
wandering into regions wild and luxuriant as the fancy 
that gave them birth, which Philosophy was never des- 
tined to discover, nor even Poetry, till then, had ex- 
plored. 

Nor will the Muse leave her son comfortless in that 
more dreary solitude into which he may be drifted by 
shi >wreck upon an ungrateful world, where the poet 
stands isolated in the midst of mankind. 

Tiiere lived a divine old man, whose everlasting re- 
mains we have all admired, whose memory is the pride 
of England and of Nature. His youth was distinguish- 
ed by a happier lot than, perhaps, genius has often en- 
joyed at the commencement of its career : he was ena- 
bled, by the liberality of fortune, to dedicate his soul to 
the cultivation of those classical accomplishments in 
which almost his infancy delighted : he had attracted 
admiration at the period when it is most exquisitely 
felt : he stood forth the literary and political champion 
of republican England ; — and Europe acknowledged 
him the conqueror But the storm arose ; his fortune 
sunk with the republic which he had defended ; the 
name which future ages have consecrated was forgot- 
ten ; and neglect was embittered by remembered ce- 
lebrity. Age was advancing — Health was retreating — 



THE REV. C WOLFE. 



61 



Nature hid her face from him for ever, for never more 
to him returned — 

" Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, 
" Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, 
*',0r Mocks or herds, or human face divine." — 

What was the refuge of the deserted veteran from 
penury — from neglect — from infamy — from darkness 1 
— Not in a querulous and peevish despondency: not in 
an unmanly recantation of principles — erroneous , but 
unchanged ; not in the tremendous renunciation of 
what Heaven has given, and Heaven alone should take 
away ; — but he turned from a distracted country and a 
voluptuous court, — he turned from triumphant enemies 
and inefficient friends, — he turned from a world that 
to him was a universal blank, to the Muse that sits 
among the cherubim, — and she caught him into heav- 
en ! — The clouds that obscured his vision upon earth 
instantaneously vanished before the blaze of celestial 
effulgence, and his eyes opened at once upon all the 
glories and terrors of the Almighty, — the seats of eter- 
nal beatitude and bottomless perdition. What, though 
to look upon the face of this earth- was still denied — 
what was it to him, that one of the outcast atoms of 
creation was concealed from his view — when the Deity 
•permitted the Muse to unlock his mysteries, and dis- 
close to the poet the recesses of the universe — when 
she bade his soul expand into its immensity, and enjoy 
as well its horrors as its magnificence — what was it to 
him that he had " fallen upon evil days and evil 
tongues," for the Muse could transplant his spirit into 
the bowers of Eden, where the frown of fortune was 
disregarded, and the weight of incumbent infirmity for- 
gotten in the smile that beamed on primeval innocence, 
and the tear that was consecrated to man's first disobe- 
dience. 



63 



REMAINS OF 



The Muse, in this instance, raised the soul immedi- 
ately, almost visibly, to heaven, and brought Religion, 
with all her charms, to co-operate in the consolation she 
bestowed. — But were we to analyse the effects of Poet- 
ry, we should soon discover that this is no partial un- 
ion, but that the Muse must be necessarily a worship- 
per and an adorer of the Deity. I do not call upon you 
to view her in the moments of enraptured piety, — in 
her vigils and devotions with Young, or her heavenly 
conversations with Cowper : it is her interest that there 
should be a God — it is her occupation to dwell with de- 
light upon his attributes ; for are not the beautiful and 
sublime perpetual objects of her contemplation ? And 
she will naturally seek where they reside in superior 
perfection ; — and where shall she look for sublimity but 
in that unseen Being in whom is nothing finite, — that 
Being of eternity, immensity, and omnipotence 1 Nay, 
even in ideas of inferior sublimity, obscurity and terror, 
that are their leading characteristics, often impart a 
nameless sensation of some unknown and mysterious 
presence ; and darkness and silence, the tempest and 
the whirlwind, have borne testimony to the existence of 
God. 

Would not an universal cloud settle upon all the 
beauties of creation, if it were supposed that they had 
not emanated from Almighty energy ? — In the works 
of art, we are not content with the accuracy of feature 
and the glow of colouring, until we have traced the 
mind that guided the chisel and gave the pencil its del- 
icacies and animation ; nor can we look with delight 
upon the features of nature without hailing the celestial 
Intelligence that gave them birth ; and there is some- 
thing inexpressibly mournful in beholding an object 
with proportions and loveliness that seem immediately 
from heaven, to think that fair form and that exquisite 
and expressive harmony was a mass flung together by 
the dull and unselecting hand of Chance, and that no 
mighty master of the work rejoiced in its completion. 

The Deity is too sublime for Poetry to doubt his ex- 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. &> 

istence. Creation has too much of the Divinity insin- 
uated into her beauties to allow her to hesitate : she 
demands no proof, — she waits for no demonstration ; — 
she looks, and she believes ; — she admires, and she 
adores. Nor is it alone with natural religion that she 
maintains this intimate connexion ; for what is the 
Christian's hope, but Poetry in her purest and most 
ethereal essence 1 Mark the Christian when the holy 
transport is upon him, — when the world sweeps by, and 
is disregarded, — when his whole frame seems to have 
precipitated his soul into other regions — is not Fancy 
wandering among the heavenly host, or bending be- 
neath the throne of its Creator, — is not his soul teeming 
with all the imagery of heaven — is it not expanding 
with unutterable poetry 1 

But let humbled infidelity declare her triumphs, and 
the homage of Voltaire to the Muse's piety remain a 
bright memorial of her allegiance to Christianity. 
When the powers of hell seemed for a time to prevail, 
and his principles had given a shock to the faith of Eu- 
rope, the daring blasphemer ventured to approach the 
dramatic Muse ; — but no inspiration would she vouch- 
safe to dignify the sentiments of impiety and atheism. 
He found that no impassioned emotion could be roused, 
— no tragic interest excited, — no generous and lofty 
feeling called into action, where those dark and chilling 
feelings pervade : he complied with the only terms 
upon which the Muse would impart her fervours ; and 
the tragedies of Voltaire display the loveliness of Chris- 
tianity, below, indeed, what a Christian would feel, but 
almost beyond what unbelieving genius could con- 
ceive. Such was the victory of Poetry, when she ar- 
rested the apostate while marching onward to the de- 
solation of mankind, — when the champion of modern 
philosophy fell down before the altar she had raised, 
and breathed forth the incense of an infidel's adora- 
tion ! When he came, like the disobedient prophet, that. 
he might curse the people of God, and behold i( h^ 
blessed them altogether." 



64 REMAINS OF 

But why do I adduce mortal testimony ? From the 
beginning she was one of the ministering spirits that 
stand round the throne of God, to issue forth at his 
word, and do his errands upon the earth. Sometimes 
she has been the herald of an offending nation's down- 
fall ; and often has she been sent commissioned to 
transgressing man, with prophecy and warningupon her 
lips ; — but (at other times) she has been intrusted with 
" glad tidings of great joy ;" and Poetry was the anti- 
cipating Apostle, the prophetic Evangelist, whose, 
" feet were beautiful upon the mountains — that publish- 
ed salvation — that said unto Zion, Thy God reigneth !" 
— Yet has she been accused of co-operating with luxu- 
ry and fostering the seeds of private indolence and 
public supineness ; she has been stigmatised as the 
origin of moral deformity, because she often conde- 
scends to attend upon guilty man ; and where virtue 
has failed to withdraw him from his vices, has softened 
their effects, and prevented him from falling into bru- 
tality. The spoils of Persia would have relaxed the 
energies of Greece although Poetry had never descend- 
ed from her throne on high to bless the visions of Gre- 
cian enthusiasm ; and happy, polished, enchanting 
Greece, the idol of our fondest imagination, would have 
sunk into oblivion — into stupid luxury and mindless 
indolence. Thus, also, when the genius of Roman in- 
dependence was abandoning the world to Octavius, and 
retiring from his empire into everlasting exile, the 
Muse collected all her energies to bestow departing con- 
solation ; she wrought a moral miracle to arrest the 
headlong degeneracy of Rome, and raised up Augustus 
to counteract the crimes that Octavius had committed. 

w * w tt *r 

But turn to Poetry and History united for your in* 
struction. Human nature is common to both ; but dif- 
ferent are their modes of tuition. They supply their 
respective delineations of character. Poetry, when at 
maturity, observes it as well with a painter's eye as with 
fhe scrutiny of a philosopher. She seizes the moment 



THE REV. C. WOLFE 65 

of sketching it when in its most picturesque attitude ; 
or, if there be many, she groups them so as that they 
may produce the best general effects ; and thus, with- 
out annihilating their deformities, she makes them con- 
duce to a pleasing and fascinating impression. But 
rigid History takes character as she finds it ; she dis- 
plays it more exact and impartial, but less attractive to 
our contemplation. Poetry displays the moral character ; 
History, the moral and political. Poetry makes the char- 
acter more palpable ; History more complete. 

Behold History bending over the dying Theban ! 
the warriors are weeping around him ; the javelin is 
still in his side. They imagined his glory was termin- 
ating with his life ; they fancied that because he had 
no mortal representative who should bear the merit of 
Epaminondas to future ages, that posterity would have 
been permitted to forget him ; they thought they were 
sympathising with the mighty man, when they mourn- 
fully exclaimed, "You have no child !" At the word, 
the hero half arose ; the splendour of futurity irradia- 
ted his countenance ; the beams of History's immortal 
smile played upon his features, and his soul went forth, 

rejoicing, and exclaiming — " 1 have t" 
# # * # # 

While Hannibal was raging in the bowels of Italy, 
and observing the moment when Rome was vulnerable, 
she looked to her statesmen in her hour of peril ; but 
statesmen were the pupils of their own experience : 
she thought the Fabii and Marcelli could form a tem- 
porary check to his advance or his ravages ; but Scipio 
looked into the ages that were past, and saw the prefig- 
uration of Rome's deliverance. We are told that the 
Muse of history descended upon the meditating hero ; 
that she shewed him the harbour of Syracuse, and told 
him a tale of former days : " That in the dead of night, 
when Syracuse was plunged in universal mourning and 
consternation, when the overwhelming navy of Carthage 
was riding in her harbour, and the next day's light 
threatened to conduct the enemy into her citadel — - 

6* 



<J6 REMAINS OP 

with a policy unique and sublime, she clandestinely dis- 
missed her garrison to the coast of Africa, and when 
the senate of Carthage expected the gates of Syracuse 
to open, they heard that the warriors of Syracuse were 
beneath her own walls." The hero applied the glori- 
ous suggestion : — he embarked his legions — he sailed 
to Africa ; he left the host of Carthage in Italy, and 
obeyed the instructions of History. And did she in- 
struct him aright? — You will read your answer in the 
tears of Hannibal when he threw his last look upon the 
delightful plains of Italy. 

Such was the benefit of historical retrospect in an- 
cient days ; but its value is now incalculably augment- 
ed ; for, of the sciences, history is that which is al- 
ways advancing. Mathematics and philosophical im- 
provements may be long at a stand ; poetry and the 
arts are often stationary, often retrograde ; but every 
year, every month, every day, is contributing its know- 
ledge to the grand magazine of historical experience. 
Look at what the last years have added, and behold how 
History gathers as she rolls along — what new attrac- 
tions she holds forth to mankind. But, with what an 
accession of beauty she invites the Briton to the study 
of her charms, while she recounts the acts a and heroism 

and glories of her country ! 

# # # * # 

Let the energies of England be extinct ; — let her ar- 
mies be overwhelmed ;— let her navy become the spoil 
of the enemy and the ocean ; — let the national credit 
become a by-word ; — let the last dregs of an exhausted 
treasury be wrung from her coffers ; — let the constitu- 
tion crumble ; — let the enemy ride in her capital, and 
her frame fall asunder in political dissolution ; — then 
stand with History on one hand, and Oratory on the 
other, over the grave in which her energies lie en- 
tombed, — and cry aloud ! Tell her that there was a 
time when the soul of a Briton would not bend before 
the congregated world : — tell her that she once called 
her sons around her and wrung the charter of her 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 6? 

liberties from a reluctant despot's hand : — tell her that 
she was the parent of the band of brothers that fought 
on Crispin's day : — tell her that Spain sent forth a na- 
tion upon the seas against her, and that England and 
the elements overwhelmed it : — tell her that six centu- 
ries were toiling to erect the edifice of her constitution, 
and that at length the temple arose : — tell her that there 
are plains in every quarter of the globe where Victory 
has buried the bones of her heroes, — 

" That the spirits of her fathers 

" Shall start from ev'ry wave, 

" For the deck it was their field of fame, 

" And ocean was their grave :"— 

When the earth opened upon Lisbon and swallowed her 
in the womb, — tell her that she stretched her hand 
across the seas and raised her from the bowels of the 
earth into the world again : — tell her that when the 
enemy of human liberty arose, the freedom of the 
whole world took refuge with her ; that, with an arm 
of victory, alone and unaided, she flung back the 
usurper, till recreant Europe blushed with shame ; — 
tell her all this ; and I say that the power of lethargy 
must be omnipotent, if she does not shake the dust from 
her neck, and rise in flames of annihilating vengeance 
on her destroyer. *.'.*.,** 

For him who peruses history, every hero has fought, 
— every philosopher has instructed, — every legislator 
has organised , — every blessing was bestowed, — every 
calamity was inflicted for his information. In public, 
he is in the audit of his counsellors, and enters the sen- 
ate with Pericles, Solon, and Lycurgus about him : in 
private, he walks among the tombs of the mighty dead ; 
and every tomb is an oracle. — But who is he that should 
pronounce this awakening call 1 who is he whose voice 
should be the trumpet and war-cry to an enslaved and 
degraded nation 1 — It should be the voice of such a 
one as he who stood over slumbering Greece, and ut- 



68 REMAINS OF 

tered a note at which Athens started from her indo- 
lence, Thebes roused from her lethargies, and Macedon 
trembled. * * * * 



Soon after the delivery of this speech, Mr. Wolfe 
began to turn his mind with more than his usual dili- 
gence to the minor branches of mathematics and natu- 
ral philosophy prescribed in the under-graduate course : 
and in the short time he thus devoted his labours, he 
evinced so great a capacity for scientific attainments, 
that those friends who could best estimate his talents 
for such abstruse subjects, earnestly urged him to the 
arduous task of reading for a fellowship. His diffidence 
in his own powers, however, prevented him from enter- 
ing upon it until some time after he took the degree of 
Bachelor of Arts, to which he was admitted in the year 
1814. He was at length persuaded to determine upon 
this pursuit, and* all his friends entertained the most 
sanguine hopes of his success, so far as they could de- 
pend upon the steadiness of his application. 

For a short period he prosecuted his studies with 
such effect as to render it a matter of regret to all who 
were interested for him, that he did not persevere in his 
efforts, and that he allowed any trifling interruptions to 
divert him from his object. He evinced, indeed, a 
solidity of understanding, and a clearness of concep- 
tion, which, with ordinary diligence and proper man- 
agement, might have soon made him master of all those 
branches of learning required in the fellowship course 
of the Dublin University ; but the habits of his mind 
and the peculiarity of his disposition, and the variety of 
his taste, seemed adverse to any thing like continued 
and laborious application to one definite object. It was 
a singular characteristic of his mind, that he seldom 
read any book throughout, not even those works in 
which he appeared most to delight. Whatever he read, 
he thoroughly digested and accurately retained ; but 
his progress through any book of an argumentative or 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 69 

speculative nature was impeded by a disputative habit 
of thought and a fertility of invention, which suggested 
ingenious objections and started new theories at every 
step. Accordingly, this constitution of mind led him 
rather to investigate the grounds of an author's hypoth- 
esis, and to satisfy his own mind upon the relative 
probabilities of conflicting opinions, than to plod on 
patiently through a long course, merely to lay up 
in his memory the particular views and arguments of 
each writer, without consideration of their importance 
or their foundation. He was not content to know what 
an author's opinions were, but how far they were right 
or wrong. The examination of a single metaphysical 
speculation of Locke, or a moral argument of Butler, 
usually cost him more time and thought than would 
carry ordinary minds through a whole volume. It was 
also remarkable that in the perusal of mere works of 
fancy — the most interesting poems and romances of the 
day — he lingered with such delight on the first striking 
passages, or entered into such minute criticism upon 
every beauty and defect as ho went along, that it usual- 
ly happened, either that the volume was hurried from 
him, or some other engagement interrupted him before 
he had finished it. A great portion of what he had 
thus read he could almost repeat from memory; and 
while the recollection afforded him much ground of fu- 
ture enjoyment, it was sufficient also to set his own 
mind at work in the same direction. 

The facility of his disposition also exposed him to 
many interruptions in his studies. Even in the midst 
of the most important engagements, he had not resolu- 
tion to deny himself to any visiter. He used to watch 
anxiously for every knock at his door, lest any one 
should be disappointed or delayed who sought for him ; 
and such was the good-natured simplicity of his heart, 
that, however sorely he sometimes felt the intrusion, 
he still rendered himself so agreeable even to his most 
common-place acquaintances, as to encourage a repeti- 
tion of their importunities. He allowed himself to be- 



70 REMAINS OP 

Come the usual deputy of every one who applied to 
him to perform any of the routine collegiate duties 
which he was qualified to discharge ; and thus his time 
was so much invaded, that he seldom had any interval 
for continued application to his own immediate busi- 
ness. Besides, the social habit of his disposition, which 
delighted in the company of select friends, and prefer- 
red the animated encounter of conversational debate 
to the less inviting exercise of solitary study ; and his 
varied taste, which could take interest in every object 
of rational and intellectual enjoyment, served to scatter 
his mind and divert it from that steadiness of applica- 
tion which is actually necessary for the attainment of 
distinguished eminence in any pursuit. 

About the time he had entertained thoughts of read- 
ing for a fellowship, he had become acquainted with an 
interesting and highly respectable family, who resided 
in the most picturesque part of the county of Dublin. 
Previously to this he had been long immured within the 
city, and had seldom made even a day's excursion 
amidst the lovely scenery of the surrounding country. 
The beauties of nature seemed to break upon him with 
all the charms of novelty, and were heightened by being 
shared with friends of congenial feelings. The sensa- 
tions thus excited soon awakened his slumbering Muse, 
and found their natural expression in all the fervours 
•f poetic inspiration. The reader shall be presented 
here with a specimen of his powers in descriptive poet- 
ry. The subject is " Lough Bray :" a romantic and 
magnificent scene, which lies about six miles south of 
Rathfarnham, in the northern part of the county Wick- 
low. It is a sequestered spot in the midst of a region 
of wildest mountains and hills. There are two lakes 
called the upper and the lower, the latter of which is 
the more beautiful and extensive. It is situated near 
the top of an abrupt mountain, and is almost circular 
in its shape, a circumstance which has probably given 
rise to the conjecture that it may be the crater of an 
extinct volcano. Its area is said to be thirty-seven Irish 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 71 

acres. Close beside it stands a precipice of several 
hundred feet, near the top of which is a dark over- 
hanging cliff, commonly called the " Eagle's Crag ;" 
and the lake itself sometimes overflows and glides down 
the side of the mountain in the opposite direction. This 
brief description of the principal features of the scene, 
may serve to prepare the reader for what he is to expect 
in the little poem which follows. 

FAREWELL TO LOUGH BRAY. 

Then fare thee well ! — I leave thy rocks and glens, 

And all thy wild and random majesty, 

To plunge amid the world's deformities, 

And see how hideously mankind deface 

What God hath given them good : — while viewing thee, 

I think how grand and beautiful is God, 

When man has not intruded on his works, 

But left his bright creation unimpaired. 

'Twas therefore I approached thee with an awe 

Delightful, — therefore eyed, with joy grotesque — 

With joy I could not speak ; (for on this heart 

Has beauteous Nature seldom smiled, and scarce 

A casual wind has blown the veil aside, 

And shewn me her immortal lineaments,) 

1 Twas therefore did my heart expand, to mark 

Thy pensive uniformity of gloom, 

The deep and holy darkness of thy wave, 

And that stern rocky form, whose aspect stood 

Athwart us, and confronted us at once, 

Seeming to vindicate the worship due, 

And yet reclined in proud recumbency, 

As if secure the homage would be paid : 

It look'd the genius of the place, and seem'd 

To superstition's eye, to exercise 

Some sacred, unknown function. — Blessed scene* ! 

Fraught with primeval grandeur ! or if aught 

Is changed in thee, it is no mortal touch 



78 REMAINS OF 

That sharpen'd thy rough brow, or fringed thy skirts 

With coarse luxuriance : — 'twas the lightning's force 

Dash'd its strong flash across thee, and did point 

The crag ; or, with his stormy thunderbolt, 

Th' Almighty architect himself disjoin'd 

Yon rock ; then flung it down where now it hangs, 

And said, " Do thou lie there ;" — and genial rains, 

(Which e'en without the good man's prayer came down) 

Call'd forth thy vegetation. — Then I watch'd 

The clouds that coursed along the sky, to which 

A trembling splendour o'er the waters moved 

Responsive ; while at times it stole to land, 

And smiled among the mountain's dusky locks. 

Surely there linger beings in this place, 

For whom all this is done : — it cannot be, 

That all this fair profusion is bestow'd 

For such wild wayward pilgrims as ourselves. 

Haply some glorious spirits here await 

The opening of heaven's portals ; who disport 

Along the bosom of the lucid lake ; 

Who cluster on that peak ; or playful peep 

Into yon eagle's nest ;-then sit them down 

And talk of those they left on earth, and those 

Whom they shall meet in heaven : and, haply tired, 

(If blessed spirits tire in such employ,) 

The slumbering phantoms lay them down to rest 

Upon the bosom of the dewy breeze. — 

Ah ! whither do I roam — I dare not think — 

Alas ! I must forget thee ; for I go 

To mix with narrow minds and hollow hearts — 

1 must forget thee — fare thee, fare thee well ! 



The following stanzas will convey some idea of the 
sensations with which the poet returned from such 
scenes as this to the sombre walls of a college, and 
how painful lie felt the transition from such enjoyments 
to the grave occupation of academic studies. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 73 

SONG. 

I. 

O say not that my heart is cold 

To auglit that once could warm it — - 
That Nature's form so dear of old 

No more has power to charm it ; 
Or that th' ungenerous world can chill 

One glow of fond emotion 
For those who made it dearer still, 

And shared my wild devotion. 

II. 

Still oft those solemn scenes [ view 

In rapt and dreamy sadness ; 
Oft look on those who lov'd them too 

With fancy's idle gladness ; 
Again I long'd to view the light 

In Nature's features glowing ; 
Again to tread the mountain's height, 

And taste the soul's o'erflowing. 

III. 

Stern Duty rose, and frowning flung 

His leaden chain around me ; 
With iron look and sullen tongue 

He mutter'd as he bound me — 
45 The mountain breeze, the boundless heaven, 

Unfit for toil the creature ; 
These for the free alone are given, — 

But what have slaves with Nature ?" 



A description of an enchanting scene in the county 
Wicklow— "the Dargle," or "Glen of the Oak"— 
cannot fail to interest any one who has had the happi- 
ness to visit it, and is gift j d with taste to enjoy it. This 
little sketch, though written in prose, is animated by 
the very spirit of poetry, and is so graphically accurate 

6 



74 REMAINS OF 

in the delineation of every feature of that lovely spot, 
that it seems capable of summoning up before the ima- 
gination, as by magic, the whole scene, in all its vivid 
colouring and its distinctive forms of beauty. 

THE DARGLE. 

We found ourselves at Bray about ten in the morn- 
ing, with that disposition to be pleased which seldom 
allows itself to be disappointed ; and the sense of our 
escape from every thing not only of routine, but of 
regularity, into the country of mountains and glens and 
valleys and waterfalls, inspired us with a sort of gay 
wildness and independence, that disposed us to find 
more of the romantic and picturesque than perhaps 
Nature ever intended. If, therefore, gentle reader, 
thou shouldest here meet with any extravagances at 
which thy sober feelings may be inclined to revolt, 
bethink thee, that the immortal Syntax himself, when 
just escaped from the everlasting dulness of a school, 
did descry a landscape even in a post, — a circumstance 
which probably no one had ever discovered before. 

We proceeded to the Dargle along the small river 
whose waters were flowing gently towards us after hav- 
ing passed through the beautiful scenes we were to 
visit. It was here a tranquil stream, and its banks but 
thinly clothed ; but at the opening of the Dargle-gate, 
the scene was instantly changed. At once we were 
immersed in a sylvan wilderness, where the trees were 
thronging and crowding around us ; and the river had 
suddenly changed its tone, and was srunding wildly up 
the wooded bank that sloped down to its edge. We pre- 
cipitated ourselves towards the sound, — and when we 
stopped and looked around us, the mountains, the 
champaign, and almost the sky had disappeared. We 
were at the bottom of a deep winding glen, whose steep 
sides had suddenly shut out every appearance of the 
world that we had left. At our feet a stream was 
struggling with the multitude of rude rocks, which 



THE REV. C WOLFE. 



75 



Nature, in one of her primeval convulsions, had flung 
here and there in masses into its current ; sometimes 
uniting into irregular ledges, over which the water 
swept with impetuosity ; — sometimes standing insulated 
in the stream, and increasing the energies of the river 
by their resistance ; — sometimes breaking forward from 
the bank, and giving a bolder effect to its romantic out- 
line. The opposite side of the glen, that rose steeply 
and almost perpendicularly from the very brink of the 
river, was one precipice of foliage from top to bottom, 
where the trees rose directly above each other (their 
roots and backs being in a jrreat degree concealed by 
the profusion of leaves in those below them,) and a 
broken sunbeam now and then struggled through the 
boughs, and sometimes contrived to reach the river. 

The side along which we proceeded was equally 
high, but more sloping and diversified ; and the wood- 
ing, at one time retiring from the stream, while at 
another a close cluster of trees of the freshest verdure 
advanced into the river, bending over it in attitudes at 
once graceful and fantastic, and forming a picturesque 
and luxuriant counterpart to the little naked promonto- 
ries of rock which we before observed. Both sides of 
the glen completely enclosed us from the view of every 
thing external, except a narrow tract of sky just over 
our heads, which corresponded in some degree to the 
course of the stream below ; so that in fact the sun 
seemed a stranger, only occasionally visiting us from 
another system. Sometimes while we were engaged in 
contemplating the strong darkness of the river as it 
rushed along, and the pensive loveliness of the foliage 
overhanging it, a sudden gleam of sunshine quietly yet 
instantaneously diffused itself over the scene, as if it 
smiled almost from some internal perception of pleasure, 
and felt a glow of instinctive exhilaration. Thus did 
we wander from charm to charm, and from beauty to 
beauty, endlessly varying, though all breathing the 
same wild and secluded luxury, the same poetical vo- 
luptuousness. This new region, set apart from the 



76 REMAINS OP 

rest of creation, with its class of fanciful joys attached 
to it, seemed allotted to some creature of different ele- 
ments from our own, — some airy being, whose only es- 
sence was imagination. As the thought occupied us, 
we opened upon a new object which seemed to confirm 
it. The profuse wooding which formed the steep and 
rich barrier of the opposite side oi the river, was sud- 
denly interrupted by a huge naked rock that stood out 
into the stream, as if it had swelled forward indignantly 
from the touch of cultivation, and, proud of its primi- 
tive barrenness, had flung aside the hand that was dis- 
pensing beauty around it, and that would have intruded 
upon its craggy and original majesty. It was here that 
our imaginations fixed a residence for the Genius of the 
river and the Spirit of the Dargle. A sort of watery 
cell was formed by the protrusion of this bold figure 
from the one side, and the thick foliage that met it 
across from the other, and threw a solemn darkness 
over the water. In front, a fragment of rock stood in 
the middle of the current, like a threshold, and a 
spreading tree hung its branches directly over it, like a 
spacious screen in face of the cell. From this we began 
gradually to ascend, until our side became nearly as 
steep as the opposite, while the wooding was thicken- 
ing on both at every step ; so that the glen soon formed 
one steep and magnificent gulf of foliage. The river 
at a vast distance, almost directly below us; the glad 
sparkling and flashing of its waters, only occasionally 
seen, and its wild voice mellowed and refined as it 
reached us through thousands of leaves and branches ; 
the variety of hues, and the mazy irregularity of the 
trees that descended from our feet to the river, — were 
finely contrasted with the heavier and more monoto- 
nous mass that met it in the bottom, down the other 
side. 

In stepping back a few paces, we just descried, over 
the opposite boundary, the top of Sugar-loaf, in dim and 
distant perspective. The sensations of a mariner, 
when, after a long voyage without sight of shore, he 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 



77 



suddenly perceives symptoms of land where land was 
not expected, could not be more novel and curious, 
than those excited in us by this little silent notice of 
regions which we had literally forgotten, — so totally 
were we engrossed in our present enchantment, and so 
much were our minds, like our view, bounded by the 
sides of the glen. This single object let in a whole 
train of recollections and associations : but the charm 
could not be more gradually and more pleasingly bro- 
ken. The glen, still retaining all its characteristic 
luxuriance, began gracefully to widen, — the country to 
open upon us, and the mountains to rise ; and at length, 
after a gentle descent, we passed the Daigle-gate, and 
found ourselves standing over the delightful valley of 
Powerscourt. It was like the transition from the en- 
joyments of an Ariel to those of human nature, — from 
the blissful abode of some sylphic genius, to the happi- 
est habitations of mortal men, — from all the restless and 
visionary delights of fancy, to the calm glow of real and 
romantic happiness. Our minds that were before con- 
fused by the throng of beauties that enclosed and soli- 
cited them on every side, now expanded and reposed 
upon the scene before us. The Sun himself seemed 
liberated, and rejoicing in his emancipation. The val- 
ley indeed " lay smiling before us ;" the river, no long- 
er dashing over rock and struggling with impediments, 
was flowing brightly and cheerfully along in the sun, 
bordered by meadows of the liveliest green, and now 
and then embowered in a cluster of trees. One little 
field of the freshest verdure swelled forward beyond the 
rest, round which the river wound, so as to give it the 
appearance of an island. In this we observed a mower 
whetting his sithe, and the sound was just sufficient to 
reach us faintly and at intervals. To the left was the 
Dargle, where all the beauties that had so much en- 
chanted us were now one undistinguishable mass of 
leaves. Confronting us, stood Sugar-loaf, with his train 
of rough and abrupt mountains, remaining dark in the 
midst of sunshine, like the frowning guardians of the 

6* 



78 REMAINS OF 

valley. These were contrasted with the grand flowing 
outline of the mountains to our right, and the exquisite 
refinement and variety of the light that spread itself 
over their gigantic sides. Far to the left, the sea was 
again disclosed to our view, and behind us was the Scalp, 
like the outlet from Paradise into the wide world of 
thorns and briars. 



A BIRTH-DAY POEM. 



Oh have you not heard of the harp that lay 

This morning across the pilgrim's way — 

The wayward youth that loved to wander 

By twilight lone up the mountain yonder ? 

How that wild harp came there not the wisest can know, 

It lay silent and lone on the mountain's brow ; 

The eagle's down on the strings that lay 

Proved he there had awaited the dawning ray; 

But no track could be seen, nor a footstep was near, 

Save the course of the hare o'er the strings in fear, — 

And ah ! no minstrel is here to be seen 

On our mountain's brow, or our valleys green ; 

And if there were, he had miss'd full soon 

His wild companion so sweet and boon — 

"While the youth stood gazing on aghast, 

The wind it rose strong, and the wind it rose fast, 

Quick on the harp it came swinging, swinging — 

Then away through the strings it went singing, singing, 

Till a peal there arose so lofty and loud 

That the eagle hung breathless upon his cloud, 

And away through the strings the wind it went sweeping 

Till the spirit awoke, that among them was sleeping — 

It awoke, it awoke ; 

It spoke, it spoke — 
" I am the spirit of Erin's might, 
That brighten'd in peace, and that nerved her in fight-*- 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 79 

The spirit that lives in the blast of the mountain, 
And tunes her voice to the roll of the fountain— 
The spirit of giddy and frantic gladness — 
The spirit of most heart-rending sadness — 
The spirit of maidens weeping on 

Wildly, tenderly — 
The spirit of heroes thundering on 

Gloriously, gloriously ; — 
And though my voice is seldom heard, 
Now another's song 's preferr'd, 
I tell thee, stranger, I have sung 
Where Tara's hundred harps have rung — 
And I have rode by Brien's side, 
Rolling back the Danish tide — 
And know each echo long and slow 
Of still — romantic Gland ulough ; 
Though now my song but seldom thrills, 

Lately a stranger awaken'd me ; 
And Genius came from Scotland's hille 

A pilgrim for my minstrelsy. — 
But come — more faintly blows the gale, 
And my voice begins to fail — 
Pilgrim, take this simple lyre— 
And yet it holds a nation's fire — 
Take it, while with me 'tis swelling, 
To your stately lowland dwelling — 
There she dwells — my Erin's maid- 
In her charming native shade ; 
I have placed my stamp upon her, 
Erin's radiant brow of honour ; 
Spirits lambent — heart that's glowing — 
Mind that's rich, and soul o'erflowing ; 
She moves with her bounding mountain-grace, 
And the light of her heart is in her face : 
Tell the maid — 1 claim her mine — 
For Erin it is her's to shine ; 
And, that she still increase her store 
Of intellect and fancy's lore, 



30 REMAINS OF 

That I demand from her a mind 
Solid, brilliant, strong, refined; 
And that she prize a patriot's fire 
Beyond what avarice can desire ; 
And she must pour a patriot's song 
Her romantic hills along." — 
Her name is * * * 

Faintly died 

The blast upon tha mountain side, 
Nor scarcely o'er the clouds it brush'd ; 
And now the murmuring sound is hush'd, — 
Yet sweetly, sweetly, * * rung 
On the faltering spirit's tongue — 
Speak again, the youth he cried, — 
But no faltering spirit replied ; 
Wild harp, wild harp, 

To * * I will take thee— 
Wild harp, wild harp, 

She perhaps will wake thee. 



SONG. 

I. 

Oh my love has an eye of the softest blue, 

Yet it was not that that won me ; 
But a little bright drop from her soul was there — 

'Tis that that has undone me. 

II. 

I might have pass'd that lovely cheek, 
Nor, perchance, my heart have left me ; 

But the sensitive blush that came trembling there, 
Of my heart it forever bereft me. 

III. 

I might have forgotten that red, red lip — 
Yet how from the thought to sever ? 

But there was a smile from the sunshine withiK. 
And that smile I'll remember for ever. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 

IV. 

Think not 'tis nothing but lifeless clay, 

The elegant form that haunts me — 
'Tis the graceful delicate mind that moves 

In every step, that enchants me. 

V. 

Let me not hear the nightingale sing, 
Though 1 once in its notes delighted ; 

The feeling and mind that comes whispering forth, 
Has left me no music beside it. 

VI. 

Who could blame had I loved that face, 
Ere my eye could twice explore her ? 

Yet it is for the fairy intelligence there, 
And her warm — warm heart I adore her, 



81 



TO A FRIEND. 



I. 

My own friend — my own friend ! 
There's no one like my own friend ; 

For all the goJd 

The world can hold, 
I would not give my own friend. 

II. 

So bold and frank his bearing, boy, 
Should you meet him onward faring, boy, 
In Lapland's snow 
Or Chili's glow, 
You'd say, What news from Erin, boy ? 

III. 

He has a curious mind, boy — 
'Tis jovial — 'tis refined, boy — 

'Tis richly fraught 

With random thought, 
And feelings wildly kind, boy. 



82 REMAINS OF 

IV. 

'Twas eaten up with care, boy, 
For circle, line, and square, boy — 

And few believed 

That genius thrived 
Upon such drowsy fare, boy. 

V. 

But his heart that beat so strong, boy, 
Forbade her slumber long, boy — 

So she shook her wing, 

And with a spring 
Away she bore along, boy. 

VI. 

She wavers unconfined, boy, 
All wayward on the wind, boy ,; 

Yet her song 

All along 
Was of those left behind, boy. 

VII. 

And we may let him roam, boy, 
For years and years to come, boy ; 

In storms and seas— 

In mirth and ease, 
He'll ne'er forget his home, boy, 

VIII. 

O give him not to wear, boy, 
Your rings of braided hair, boy — ■ 

Without this fuss 

He'll think of us— 
His heart — he has us there, boy. 

IX. 
For what can't be undone, boy, 
He will not blubber on, boy — 

He'll brightly smile, 

Yet think the while 
Upon the friend that's gone, boy. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 83 



X. 

saw you his fire-side, boy, 
And those that round it bide, boy, 

You'd glow to see 

The thrilling glee 
Around his fire-side, boy. 

XI. 
Their airy poignant mirth, boy, 
From feeling has its birth, boy : 

'Tis worth the groans 

And the moans 
Of half the dolts on earth, boy. 

XII. 

Each soul that there has smiled, boy, 
Is Erin's native child, boy— 

A woodbine flower 

In Erin's bower, 
So elegant, so wild, boy. 

XIII. 
The surly clouds that roll, boy, 
Will not for storms console, boy ; 

'Tis the rainbow's light 

So tenderly bright 
That softens and cheers the soul, boy. 

XIV. 
I'd ask no friends to mourn, boy, 
When I to dust return, boy — 
No breath of sigh 
Or brine of eye 
Should gather round my urn, boy. 
XV. 

1 just would ask a tear, boy, 
From every eye that's there, boy ; 

Then a smile each day, 
All sweetly gay, 
My memory should repair, boy. 



*4 



REMAINS OF 

XVI. 

The laugh that there end' ^rs, boy- 
The memory of your years, boy — 

Would more delight 

Your hovering sprite 
Than halt the world's teirs, boy. 



Something, perhaps, may be discovered in the latter 
poems beyond the mere inspiration of the Mase; and 
it might therefore appear inexpedient to pass by, with- 
out some short notice, a circumstance in the life of our 
author so interesting as tnat which the reader may have 
already suspected. With the family alluded to in these 
poems, he had been for some time in habits of the most 
friendly intercourse, and frequently had trie happiness 
of spending a few < ays upon a visit at their country 
residence, sharing in all the refined pleasures of their 
domestic circle, and partaking with them in the exhila- 
rating enjoyment of the rural and romantic scenery 
around them. With every member of the family he 
soon became cordially intimate ; but with one this inti- 
macy gradually and almost unconsciously grew into a 
decided attacnment. The attainment of a fellowship 
would indeed have afforded him means sufficient to 
realise his hopes; but, unhappily, the statute which 
rendered marriage incompatible with that honourable 
station, had been lately revived. His prospects of ob- 
taining a competency in any other pursuit were so dis- 
tant and uncertain, that the family of the young lady 
deemed it prudent at once to break off all further inter- 
course, before a mutual engagement had actually taken 
place. 

How severely this disappointment pressed upon a 
heart like his, may easily be conceived. It would be 
injustice to him to deny that he long and deeply felt 
it: but he had been habitually so far under the influ- 
ence of religious principles, as to feel nssured that 
every event of our lives is under the regulation of a 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 



85 



wise Providence, and that by a resigned acquiescence 
in his arrangements, even our bitterest trials may be 
overruled for our best interests — our truest happiness. 
This circumstance, perhaps, weakened the stimulus 
to his exertions for the attainment of a fellowship, — 
but he had long bfeore relaxed them ; it does not, how- 
ever, appear that it had any influence in determining 
the choice of his profession, as the prevailing tendency 
of his mind had always been towards the sacred office 
of the ministry. 

In a short time after this severe disappointment, and 
a few days previous to his ordination (which took place 
in November IS17,) his feelings received another shock 
by the death of a dear fellow-student,* one of his most 

* The editor cannot forbear indulging his feelings by a brief record 
of the lamented friend alluded to in the above passage. The name of 
Hercules Henry Graves, with whom we were both united in bonds of 
the closest intimacy, will not be read, even by a common acquaintance, 
without awakening sentiments of regret for the loss which society has 
sustained in the early removal of so much intellectual and moral worth. 
He was the second son of the learned and excellent Dean Graves, 
professor of divinity in the Dublin University. With talents at once 
solid and shining, he combined an invincible perseverance, a mascu- 
line strength of understanding, and an energv of spirit which crowned 
his academic labours with the most distinguished honours, and afford- 
ed the surest pledge of rapid advancement to professional eminence. 
These rare endowments of mind were accompanied by qualities oi 
greater value, — a high moral taste, a purity of principle, a generosity 
of spirit, and an affectionate temperament of heart which secured him 
the respect and legardof every individual, of his widely extended ac- 
quaintance. 

This happv union of mental and moral qualities was set off by a 
constant flow of good-humour, an equability of temper, and a frank- 
ness and cordiality of manners, which diffused an instantaneous glow 
of exhilaration through every circle in which he appeared. He was 
on the point of being called to the Irish bar, and was universally al- 
lowed to be the most promising aspirant of his contemporaries to its 
honours and emoluments, when, unhappily, his health began to break 
down. He was ordered to the South of France, where he died in 
November 1817, " in the fear of God, and the faith of Jesus Christ," 
as he himself wished it to be recorded on his tomb. His illness was 
made the happy occasion of directing his mind more fullv to the con- 
cerns of his immortal soul, which he felt he had too much overlooked 
in the busy pursuit of earthly objects. The study of religion had not, 
however, been neglected by him : with our author and two other 
friends he had been in the habit of reading and discussing some of the 

8 



86 REMAINS OF 

valued and intimate friends. Under the deep impression 
of two such afflictive trials, he was obliged to prepare 
for a removal from society which he loved, — from the 
centre of science and literature, to which he was so 
much devoted, to an obscure and remote country cura- 
cy in the north of Ireland, where he could not hope to 
meet one individual to enter into his feelings, or to hold 
communion with him upon the accustomed subjects of 
his former pursuits. He felt as if he had been trans- 
planted into a totally new world ; as a missionary aban- 
doning home and friends, and cherished habits, for the 
awful and important work to which he had solemnly 
devoted himself. 

At first he was engaged in a temporary curacy, not 
far remote from the situation in which he was soon 
afterwards permanently fixed. An extract from a letter 
to one of his college friends, will give some idea of the 
state of his feelings upon his arrival at the place where 
he was now to enter upon his new sphere of duties. 

Ballyclog, Tyrone, Dec. 11th, 1617. 



MY DEAR 



I am now sitting by myself, opposite my turf-fire, 
with my Bible beside me, in the only furnished room of 

ablest works upon the evidences of the Christian faith ; and it is to 
be presumed, that the impressions thus made upon his understanding 
were not lost upon his heart. They seemed to have recurred to his 
inind with full force in hi* illness. He took special comfort in the gra- 
cious assurance, " Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast 
out ;" anxiously considering the full import of the phrase, "to come 
unto Christ." The view of our blessed Redeemer, as God and Man, 
— as one " able and willing to save to the uttermost all that come unto 
the Father through him," was indeed " an anchor of his soul, both 
fure- and steadfast," at the near prospect of eternity. It enabled 
him not merely to close his eyes with resignation upon the brightest 
earthly prospects, but to look forward with holv hope to an imperish- 
able happiness. May this, amongst many other similar examples, 
serve to shew that vital religion is not unworthy of the greatest men- 
tal powers, or incompatible with the highest attainments of secular 
learning ; and may it impress upon the conscience of every reader, 
that a time will come when the strongest mind will want all the sus- 
taining consolations which a steadfast faith in the Gospel is calculated 
to bestow. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 87 

the Glebe House, surrounded by mountains, frost and 
snow, and by a set of people with whom I am totally 
unacquainted, except a disbanded artilleryman, his wife 
and two children, who attend me, the churchwarden 
and clerk of the parish. Do not however conceive that 
I repine ; I rather congratulate myself on my situation ; 
however, I am beginning rather poetically than histori- 
cally, and at once hurrying you ' in medias res.' Alas ! 
what could bring Horace into my head here 1 — Well, I 
arrived at Auchnacloy, without an adventure, on Sat- 
urday, at half-past eleven ; posted from thence to the 
Glebe House of Mr. S , a fine large mansion, situa- 
ted in a wild, bleak country, alternately mountain and 
bog. * * * On Sunday I arrived at this place, 
where I opened my career by reading prayers. * * * 
Comparatively happy should I be if I could continue the 
hermit of B ; but I am not doomed to such seclu- 
sion. * * * My dear I want you and my 

friends more than ever. Write immediately all of you 

to the hermit of B 

Ever yours, 

C. W." 



MY DEAR 



I shall follow your example in not wasting my paper 
either in professions or apologies. Suffice it to say, 
that a day or two before I received your letter, I had 

written to C. D , which I conceived was writing to 

the gang ; and was since obliged to leave my hermit- 
age at Ballyclog, and officiate in my own parish for the 
first time on Christmas-day, not being qualified to con- 
secrate the sacrament ; and since my return have been 

for some time engaged at * * * Well, my 

dear fellow, though it may appear as selfish as paradoxi- 
cal, I look upon you as more my companion since I 



88 REMAINS OF 

have heard that you are more alone. You are more 
like me, and have more leisure to think of me. * * * 
I am now in a country Jar superior, both in cultivation 
and society, to that which is my ultimate destination. 
I am surrounded by grandees, who count their incomes 
by thousands, and by clergymen innumerable ; — how- 
ever, I have kept out of their reach ; I have preferred 
my turf-fire, my books, and the memory of the friends 
I have left, to all the society that Tyrone can furnish — 

with one bright exception. At M 's I am indeed 

every way at home , I am at home in friendship and 
hospitality, in science and literature, in our common 
friends and acquaintance, and topics of religion. * * * 

Ever vours, 

C. W" 



Before we proceed further, it may be important as 
well as interesting to give some view of the religious 
character of the author previous to his ordination, and 
to trace the progress of his mind towards that high 
state of Christian principle to which he afterwards at- 
tained. 

His family all represent him as being from childhood 
impressed with religious feelings ; and during his col- 
lege life, the writer had full opportunity of perceiving 
that they had not been effaced. 

The pure moral taste, which seemed almost a natu- 
ral element of his mind, may properly be attributed to 
the gradual and insensible operation of that divine 
principle with which he had been so early imbued. 

In many cases, " The kingdom of God (as our bles- 
sed Lord himself declares) is as if a man should cast 
3eed in the ground ; and should sleep, and rise night 
and day, and the seed should spring and grow up, he 
knoweth not how — first the blade — then the ear — after 
that, the full corn in the ear." 

Such, in some measure, appears to have been the 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 89 

advancement of his mind in the formation of that high 
religious character which he ultimately reached ; but, 
in his case, there was at least one marked stage of this 
progress. Religion had evidently a restraining influence 
on him at all times ; it kept him back from the vulgar 
dissipation and usual vices of youth. He was exem- 
plary, I might say blameless, in his moral conduct, and 
scrupulous in the discharge of duty : and though natu- 
rally impetuous in his feelings, habitually lively and even 
playful in his temper and manners, yet there was mani- 
festly an influence in his heart and a guard upon his 
tongue, which never permitted him to violate the rules 
of strictest chastity or decorum. He was devout and 
regular in his haoits of private prayer and in attend- 
ance upon public worship ; and I have often seen him 
affected even to tears in reading the sacred Word of 
inspiration. But when he came to preach the doctrines 
and duties of Christianity to others, they burst upon 
his mimJ in their full magnitude, and in all their awful 
extent : he felt that he himself had not given up his 
whole heart to God, — that the Gospel of Christ had held 
but a divided empire in his soul ; and he looked back 
upon his earliest years with self-reproach and self-dis- 
trust, when he called to mind the subordinate place 
which the love of God had possessed in his heart. — If 
such a man could feel reason to contemplate the days 
of his youth with emotions of this kind, what should be 
the feelings of him who has lived altogether " without 
God in the world V' — who has scarce ever known what 
it was to control a passion or regulate a desire, or per- 
form a sins-le action, with an exclusive reference to the 
divine will 1 

" Yet will there come an hour to him, 
When anguish in his breast shall wake, 
And that bright eye-ball, weak and dim, 
<3azing on former days, shall ache ; — 

8* 



90 REMAINS OF 

When solitude bids visions drear 
Of raptures, now no longer dear, 
In gloomy ghastliness appear — 
When thoughts arise of errors past — 
Of prospects foully overcast — 
Of passion's unresisted rage — 
Of youth that thought not upon age — 
Of earthly hopes, too fondly nurst, 
That caught the giddy eye at first, 
But like the flowers of Syrian sands, 
That crumbled in the closing hands."* 

I will venture to introduce here, merely as indica- 
tions of his youthful piety, some religious thoughts 
which are scattered among his earliest papers. 

Those miserable sceptics who boast of their imagin- 
ary discernment, are only a sort of intellectual glow- 
worm : — they borrow their glimmer from darkness, and 
exult in its pitiful and momentary spark : but the day — 
" the day-spring from on high" will soon come, — and 
then they are but — worms ! — Dost thou dispute the ex- 
istence of a Providence 1 From thee, dust and reptile, 
I appeal to the Heavens ; from thee, undistinguished 
link in the chain of nature, I appeal to the Universe. 

I have often considered, that if it were proposed to 
man by his Maker, to select and mention the most 
faultless transactions of his life, and to offer up the 
catalogue at the shrine of his Judge, that he would ei- 
ther be totally confounded and perplexed, or would make 
a very erroneous and defective selection : he would 
even offer up vices for virtues ; sins for acts of good- 
ness : he would perhaps present a memorial of deeds 
which appeared meritorious to the world and to him- 
self, whose motive was perhaps not only unchristian, 
but criminal, — the incentive to which was a lurking, 
smothered pride, a deceitful and seductive ambition, or 
some passion which screened and shrouded itself in the 
garb of religion. I will suppose that at such an awful 

* Anster's Poems (Edinburgh, 1819,) p. 146. 



THE REV C. WOLFE 91 

crisis, when he was to make such an oblation to his 
Father and Redeemer, he perceives the futility of those 
splendid actions which dazzled his inconsiderate fel- 
low-creatures, as the native offspring of virtue : I will 
suppose that he perceives their insufficiency and omits 
them ; yet, even of his silent retired behaviour, of his 
noiseless and unseen conduct, how many actions are 
there which may dazzle himself! He will certainly 
make a statement of some deed which appeared to him 
generous and charitable ; and will think that because 
it was done in secret and without ostentation, its motive 
must be pure; (but, alas! pride can inhabit the lonely 
chamber and the solitary bosom — can mingle in the 
prayers of the anchorite, and can stretch the hand of 
bounty ; for we can flatter ourselves — yes, as destruc- 
tively as the world can flatter us ;) while perhaps some 
little thought which we had long forgotten as insignifi- 
cant, — some truly devout contemplation, — some pious 
reflection drawn from the very depth of the heart, may 
be that offering which his God looked for, — that forgot- 
ten contemplation — that reflection, which was the ema- 
nation of a soul which then felt the genuine influence 
of religion. How difficult is it then to be acquainted 
with ourselves, and what a true confession do we make 
when we say, " There is no health in us !" * * 

These reflections will appear to the pious reader to 
indicate something more than vague and general no- 
tions of religion. They exhibit, at least, the dawning 
of an enlightened conscience, and an early sensibility 
to the impressions of divine truth. It is natural to sup- 
poe that such a mind would be fully alive to the re- 
sponsibility of the ministerial office ; and accordingly, 
when the period approached when Mr. W. had to de- 
termine upon the solemn undertaking, he gave up his 
mind to the most anxious consideration of the duties it 
imposed upon him, and of the preparation of mind and 
heart which it required. Some of those standard works 
on the evidences of Christianity, which he had been in 
the habit of reading, he now resumed for the purpose 



92 REMAINS OF 

of a more serious and practical investigation. He 
seems to have dwelt with peculiar interest upon Bishop 
Butler's unanswerable work upon the Analogy of Reli- 
gion, &,c. This treasure of deep and original thought 
— the leading object of which is to expose the unrea- 
sonableness of the ordinary arguments against the 
truth of religion — seems to have been peculiarly suited 
to the character of his mind, which was easily startled 
by difficulties, and was quick in the discovery of objec- 
tions. His copious notes upon this book, shew not only 
how accurately he scrutinized every argument, but how 
practically he expanded and applied every important 
reflection which it contains. Some of the observa- 
tions thus suggested, and which seem to have impressed 
his own mind most deeply, are here selected, with the 
hope that they may prove not unacceptable or unin- 
structive to the general reader. They may serve to in- 
culcate a stronger sense of the vast importance of reli- 
gion as a subject of anxious and candid inquiry, and 
may induce some who are unacquainted with the valu- 
able work from which they have been deduced, to give 
it a serious and deliberate perusal. 

There is strong evidence of the truth of Christian* 
ity : but it is certain that no one can, upon principles 
of reason, be satisfied of the contrary : now the prac- 
tical consequence to be drawn from this is not attended 
to by every one concerned in it. This suggests an ex- 
cellent way of beginning with a Deist or Atheist . — 
Have you satisfactorily disproved Christianity ? Is it 
possible that all the evidence (collectively taken,) though 
it may not have satisfied you of its truth, has been sat- 
isfactorily removed ? Are you at your ease upon the 
subject ? And if not, what a miserable man must you 
be ! Surely it is not such a hollow case. 

This may be the best way of proceeding, whatever 
may be the truth denied ; — the existence of a God, of 
a moral governor, of a future life, the truth of Scrip- 
ture, &c. : ind it is, in fact, the state in which we pro- 
bably are by nature — not so much with convincing proof 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 93 

that there is a future state, as with no convincing proof 
to the contrary. If it be objected, that it is rather 
slender ground upon which to stand, merely that we 
cannot prove the contrary , or the falsehood of the thing; 
we may answer, that it is not intended to be ground to 
rest on ; — it is intended to set us in motion ; and the 
evidence will grow in proportion to the earnestness and 
sincerity to ascertain the point. Now, is there not a 
moral fitness in this, — that evidence should be progres- 
sive, and that in proportion to the singleness of eye and 
the diligence with which it is sought and investigated ? 
And does it not appear particularly becoming the Di- 
vine Majesty that this should be the case in all inquiries 
respecting his works and dispensations 1 and that he 
who enters upon the investigation in a presumptuous, 
careless, or profane state of mind, should be confound- 
ed 1 In this point of view, also, may be regarded the 
objections made by some to the insufficiency of the 
evidence in proof of a state of future punishment : it 
may be answered, — Are you duly affected by the bare 
surm se — by the mere whisper, that there is such a 
state ? Does it excite that degree of concern and in- 
quiry which it ought ? And if it does not, is it not a 
proof that there is something more than a mere want 
of evidence concerned in your unbelief? Is there any 
thing improbable in the supposition, that the Almighty 
may proportion the evidence to the degree of sincere 
earnestness manifested in the inquiry ? — and that when 
the earnestness is proportioned to the object, the evi- 
dence shall be proportioned to the earnestness 1 

In order to give an idea of the way in which the 
truth may grow upon a man, we may speak of the 
growing conviction arising from the constant observa- 
tion of the artlessness and simplicity of the style of the 
divine writings, as an evidence of their truth, and that 
arising from the self-application of the tiuths and prin- 
ciples of the Gospel, until at length a man shall expe- 
rience what Scripture intimates, " The witness in him- 
self;" which passage alone shews, that the Scripture 



94 REMAINS OF 

itself declares the witness shall be greater after the at- 
tainment of the Christian spirit, than at the beginning 
of a cold investigation. Is there any thing unbecoming 
in this ? The conduct of the people of Sychar may 
serve as an illustration, John, iv. 39, &c. It may also 
be observed, that it is a grand test of truth, that the 
more it is examined, the clearer it appears. Thus, too, 
the apparent contradictions of Scripture are reduced 
to harmony by examination, as the apparent irregulari- 
ties cf nature by the microscope. 

The analogy in favour of our future state, founded 
on the various changes that we and other animals un- 
dergo, is of considerable weight. It might" be, perhaps, 
a little weakened by the consideration that these chan- 
ges are all attended with sensible proofs ; and that 
therefore we could not draw as strong a conclusion, by 
analogy, in favour of one that should not be attended 
with them. It might at the same time be reolied, that 
unless we draw the conclusion that there are no chan- 
ges but what we have faculties to witness, the objection 
is of no weight. It might also be answered, that there 
may be very sufficient proof of our existence after death 
to beings capable of receiving it, though not to those of 
the same species : as we have abundant proof of the 
changes of worms into flies, while perhaps the worms 
of the same species, until their change arrives also, have 
no idea, and no proof of it, — perhaps have not senses to 
witness it. 

The credibility of a future state of existence is fully 
sufficient to become a practical principle, however low 
the evidence may appear : for, at the very lowest, we 
cannot prove the negative. 

But further, that a being should be formed of such a 
nature as man, and placed in such a situation as to try 
this most momentous question, and feel an interest in 
its determination, and yet never be able to arrive at a 
satisfactory negative, is not only a practical proof, but 
perhaps a stronger evidence of the actual truth of the 
thing, than would at first be imagined. This state of 



THE REV. C. WOLFE, 95 

doubt and perplexity upon the most important and in- 
teresting of all subjects, is a curious moral phenome- 
non : — and where are we to look for the solution 1 It 
is solved by revelation : — for, taking the two principles, 
the immortality and the fall of man, nothing is so con- 
ceivable as that the fall, in destroying so much of the 
moral excellence of man, carried off many of the proofs 
of his immortality along with it, — proofs, many of 
which, it is natural to suppose, were of a m -rat charac- 
ter, — perhaps the greatest of them, a moral fitness 
for it. 

From Bishop Butler's observations on " Divine Pun- 
ishments," there may be ready and experimental an- 
swers deduced to many of the common-place and pop- 
ular objections advanced against the reality or severity 
of future punishments. One favourite plea is the char- 
acter of the Divine Being : " He is too merciful and 
benevolent to visit human infirmity with such rigorous 
severity." But what is the fact ? He only allows men 
" to make themselves as miserable as ever they please." 
He gives thern faculties to inquire and discover conse- 
quences ; and if, by either not exerting them, or not 
complying with their rational dictates when exercised, 
they incur pain and misery, it is their own doing, and 
he leaves them to " eat the fruit of their own devices." 
Thus if we consider the Deity as merely passive in the 
business, and we observe men from want of sufficient 
consideration (for they generally bestow more or less 
upon their worldly concerns) bringing on themselves 
disease, misery, and ruin, — what an awful state is his 
who has never seriously and earnestly given himself to 
the consideration of the things of another world ! Nor 
is it very likely that, when want of consideration (a fault 
of little magnitude in the estimation of men, and even 
dignified by some with virtuous titles and epithets) can 
produce such tremendous results here, — the consequen- 
ces of sin, spiritual and external; (although men over- 
look and despise them,) will be so very light or so very 
inconsiderable, as they would fondly persuade them- 



06 REMAINS OF 

selves they are, in another world. And hence too we 
see the fody, in general, of pleading ignorance or sin- 
cerity as our excuse ior carelessness or rin ; for we find 
thoughtlessness and neglect often produce as disastrous 
consequences as vice itself: and the sin here is plain; 
for a creature not only gifted with, out distinguished, 
in a great degree, from the rest of the creation, by pow- 
ers of deliberation and observation, is bound to use 
them ; and if he shoves aside a subject, the most im- 
portant upon which those powers can be employed, on 
which his happiness chiefly depends, and one which is 
often forced upon his attention by outward events and 
circumstances, without full, deliberate meditation, and 
without arriving at any well-grounded conclusion upon 
the matter, what shall be said of that man's sincerity ? 
There is an evident dishonesty and unfairness evinced 
in shutting his eyes to what he is absolutely bound to 
contemplate, — and he must take the consequences : 
and such is the case of all those who have not seriously, 
earnestly, and deliberately considered the things that 
belong unto their peace. They may not be guilty of 
hypocrisy towards their fellow-creatures, but they act 
the hypocrite to God and to themselves. 

The inefficiency of repentance (in the common ac- 
ceptation) may be enforced by considering a man on a 
bed of pain and sickness, to which he has been brought 
by his own folly or wickedness. Do we find that floods 
of tears, and protestations of amendment, ever produce 
any improvement in that man's bodily state 1 — What 
reason have we to conclude, from precedent or analogy, 
that they will relieve his soul? 

Repentauce, in its fullest sense, a change from a state 
of enmity to a state of love to God, one would think 
is ever acceptable : but this is always the work of the 
Spirit given through Jesus Christ, and never appears to 
bo the meaning attached to it by the careless or the 
ungodly, or even apprehended by them ; and therefore 
it does not enter into the present question. 

The profligate argument, that if God gave us such 



THE REV. G. WOLFE. 97 

and such passions, he gave them to be enjoyed without 
restraint, is here immediately answered : If God gave 
us such and such faculties, he gave them to be used, 
and their use is to control those passions ; and we daily 
see the woful consequences of not exercising them, by 
actual observation. If the offence, by which the pas- 
sion is gratified, is committed against ourselves, perhaps 
we should come to a different conclusion. 

Man is gifted with powers of looking to the future t 
and evidently for the purpose of mainly preferring it 
to the present : he is therefore a creature made to look 
forward, — and to what, is the question. Some men 
madly fasten upon the present moment, and shut their 
eyes to what is naturally to follow ; and accordingly 
they reap the fruit of their folly in due season : others, 
who are either of a more calculating, or a more enter- 
prising, or a more ambitious disposition, look forward to 
various futurities at various distances ; but death comes 
equally upon all, and their futurities are no more to 
them. To what, then, is man made to look forward 1 
There are here also to be taken into account the multi- 
plied uncertainties attending the success of the various 
projects, arising out of unnumbered events and circum- 
stances which it is beyond the power of the natural fac- 
ulties to foresee or avert. This may be urged in con- 
trast to revelation. * * * * 

Such reflections as these may tend to shew that his 
faith was not the offspring of mere feeling, — that the 
doctrines of Christianity were not embraced by him 
simply from their congeniality to his pure and fervid 
imagination ; but that he applied himself with all the 
sober calculation of common sense, and all the powers 
of a clear and reasoning mind, to the examination of 
the important subject. His religion was the conviction 
of the understanding, as well as the persuasion of the 
heart. With a firm assurance of the truth and impor- 
tance of the great principles of the Gospel as they are 
interpreted and maintained by the Church of England, 
he entered upon the arduous duties of the ministry! 

9 



03 



REMAINS OF 



The more he was engaged in the work, the more deep- 
ly he felt the responsibility — the more he was in the 
habit of teaching others, the more he seemed to learn 
himself. He thus came more in contact, as it were, with 
the business of religion ; his views became more vivid, 
his heart more engaged ; and every day's experience 
appears to have strengthened his faith and heightened 
his devotion. The process by which his religious 
character was formed seems to have been so gradual, 
that it produced little apparent change in his external 
manners. His natural spirits were not so much re- 
pressed as regulated, his vivacity of temper was rather 
chastened than abated, by the predominant influence of 
religion. There was nothing which appeared con- 
strained, or harsh, or assumed in his deportment ; and 
thus his ministry was rendered doubly useful, especially 
amongst the higher classes, with w r hom the simplicity 
and cheerfulness of his disposition, and the easy and 
undesigned disclosure of his fine talents and genuine 
piety, usually secured him a favourable reception and a 
candid attention. 

A few more extracts from his letters may illustrate 
this part, of his character better than any mere descrip- 
tion. It should be observed, that when he sat down, 
after the fatigue of parochial cares, to converse with 
his absent friends, he sought for a relaxation of mind, 
and usually gave full scope to that buoyant liveliness of 
temper for which he was remarkable ; and thus, per- 
haps, those who were not acquainted with him can 
hardly estimate the intense anxiety and interest he felt 
upon subjects to which he sometimes appears to allude 
in a playfulness of spirit : besides, his nature so much 
recoiled from any thing like ostentation, that he seldom 
entered into any detail of his laborious duties, or men- 
tioned any such particulars of his ministry, (except in 
an incidental manner) as might supply an adequate idea 
of his usefulness as a clergyman. 

The following letter was written upon his return to 
his parish, after a short visit to Dublin : — 



THE REV. C WOLFE. 99 



C. Caulfidd, Jan. 28th, 1818. 



MY DEAR 



A man often derives a wonderful advantage from a 
cold and fatiguing journey, after taking leave of his 
friends ; viz. he understands the comfort of lolling 
quietly and alone by his fire-side, after his arrival at his 
destination : a pleasure which would have been totally 
lost if he had been transported there without difficulty, 
and at once from the region of friendship and society. 
Every situation borrows much of its character from 
that by which it was immediately preceded. This 
would have been all melancholy and solitude, if it had 
immediately succeeded the glow of affectionate and lite- 
rary conviviality ; but when it follows the rumbling of a 
coach, the rattling of a post-chaise, the shivering of a 
wintry night's journey, and the conversation of people 
to whom you are almost totally indifferent, it then be- 
comes comfort and repose. So I found at my arrival at 
my own cottage on Saturday ; my fire-side, from con- 
trast, became a kind of lesser friend, or at least a conso- 
lation for the loss of friends. 

Nothing could be more fortunate than the state of 
things during my absence ; there was no duty to be 
performed : and of this I am the more sensible, as I 
had scarcely arrived before I met a great supply of bu- 
siness, such as I should have been very much concern- 
ed if it had occurred in my absence. I have already 
seen enough of service to be again fully naturalized. 
I am again the weather-beaten curate : — I have trudged 
roads — forded bogs — braved snow and rain — become 
umpire between the living — have counselled the sick — 
administered to the dying — and to-morrow shall bury the 
dead. — Here have I written three sides without coming 
to the matter in hand, * * * 

Yours affectionately, 
C. W.' s 



100 REMAINS OF 



March 24th, 1818. 

" MY DEAR 

" Although I have not received an answer to a letter 
which I wrote to you, and the date of which I have had 
time to forget, I am induced to write again, and re- 
double my blow, partly in order to shame you into an 
answer, and partly to employ you to execute a commis- 
sion for me in turn. 

I attended Mr. my predecessor in the cure, 

through some of the parish business, and have not yet re- 
covered from my consternation. — Oh! I must bid a long 
farewell to literature, and all the pleasures and associa- 
tions which it carries along with it ! — Do not think that 
I repine, and least of all, at my duty as a Christian and 
a clergyman ; but here is a parish large beyond all pro- 
portion, in which the curate, who here does every thing, 
will be unavoidably called on every moment to act in- 
directly as a magistrate ; and, as I must take a cottage 
and a few acres of meadow, I shall have to encounter 
all the horrors of house-keeping, and all the cares of 
an establishment. Considering all this, and the length 
of time that even one visit, strictly professional, would 
take up, from the extent of the parish, what time shall 
I have for taking up even a book of divinity 1 But ' my 
hand is to the plough, and I must not look back.'— At 

B a small parish, where I have had little to do but 

what is connected immediately with my duty, I think 
I have got on pretty well. I told you that I had been 
preceded in that parish by an excellent man, and found 
them far better informed than perhaps any parish in 
our part of the world, and prepared to be disgusted with 
any successor. We agree however very well : the 
parish and I are on visiting terms, and in the habit of 
conversing on Christian topics ; and they tell me that 
they wish for my continuance. I look upon it as a pro- 
vidential circumstance, that I have been first called to 
the performance of duty more moderate and more pure* 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 101 

ly apostolical, and was not at once plunged into the 
parish, where it is excessive, and of a more mixed 

nature. 

# # * * * 

Yours ever, 
C. W." 

The next letter gives an account of his removal from 
his temporary post, and his final settlement in Castle 
Caulfield, the principal village of the parish of Donough- 
more. It was written after a visit to Dublin upon some 
parochial business. 

July 7th, 1818. 

" MY DEAR 

It is probable that you have accounted for my silence 
in the right way — by the trouble and confusion of 

shifting my quarters. I have left B with sincere 

regret, and am now in the comfortable predicament of 
having left one habitation without having got into an- 
other, like Sheridan's Jew, who renounced his religion 
for the purpose of inheriting a legacy, but had too 
much conscience immediately to adopt any other, and 
is accordingly represented * as a dead wall between the 
church and the synagogue.' 

" I had but a melancholy sort of a journey to Dun- 
gannon, being, for the first half of the way, in perpet- 
ual danger of falling asleep, and consequently of falling 
off the top of the coach, from the fatigue of the col- 
lege election, and the incessant patrolling through 
Dublin the day after ; and for the other half, trundling 
on so vile a vehicle, over so vile a road, that twenty 
doses of laudanum could not have then effected it. On 
leaving Dungannon for this (my rector's house) I was 
met by the family, who told me I was to do duty at 

B the next day, and so I changed my direction and 

repaired there, nothing loath ; and the next day mount- 
ed my old pulpit, where I had begun to feel myself at 

9* 



102 REMAINS OF 

home, and received a most kind welcome from my con- 
gregation. 

As I was apprised that I was to stay no longer than 
the next Saturday, I made the best of my time, in 
taking leave of my parishioners ; and I assure you, it 
was a painful and a gratifying task, — although I had, 
a little before, gone through a rehearsal in Dublin, much 
more trying. I promised that I would go to see them 
again whenever I could escape from the parish I was 
going to ; and my rich parishioners declared that I must 
(as they term it) complete their ' conversion. I, of 

course, spent as much time as I could with Mr. M * 

I parted with him on Saturday morning ; and the same 
day set out for this house, in rather a melancholy humour, 
but with a peculiarly ludicrous equipage and attend- 
ance. One waggon contained my whole fortune and 
family, (with the exception of a cow, which was driven 
along-siHe of the waggon) and its contents were two 
large trunks, a bed and its appendages ; and on the top 
of these, which were piled up so as to make a very com- 
manding appearance, sat a woman (my future house- 
keeper) and her three children, and by their side stood 
a calf of three weeks old, which has lately become an 
inmate in my family. 

I am at present living in this house, where I am 
treated with the kindest hospitality ; but expect in 
about a week to be established in my new abode, and 
to enter upon all the awful cares of a family man. In- 
deed, I go down there every day, as it is, and give di- 
rections with as knowing an air as the best manager 
among them, lest any should detect my ignorance. I 
preached last Sunday in this church, and whatever 
intercourse has yet taken place between me and my 
parishioners, seems to promise a good understanding 
between us. But I want friends — friends — and give 
my most affectionate remembrance to all of them that 
you meet. 

Yours, &c. 
C. W." 



THE RET. C. WOLFE. 10* 

Castle Caulfield, Oct. 20th, 1818. 

ft Mtf DEAR ■ 

I should have complied with your request sooner, of 
writing to assure you that I was not offended at your 
delay, if I did not conceive that you possessed a very 
comfortable degree of well-grounded assurance upon 
the point already. I had accounted for your delay by 
imagining some of its causes, before I received your 
chapter of accidents. However, do not for the future 
conceal any disaster or misfortune from me while it is 
in progress, nor wait until it is brought to a close. It 
is a slovenly way of treating a friend, only to invite 
him to rejoice in the victory, without giving him a 
share in the perils through which it is achieved. 

I have had no such signal adventures to communi- 
cate. Alas ! I have no disasters now to diversify 
my life, not having many of those enjoyments which 
render men obnoxious to them, except when my foot 
sinks up to the ancle in a bog, as I am looking for a 
stray sheep. My life is now nearly made up of visits 
to my parishioners, both sick and in health. Notwith- 
standing, the parish is so large that I have yet to form 
an acquaintance with a very formidable number of them. 
The parish and I have become very good friends : the 
congregation has increased, and the Presbyterians 
sometimes pay me a visit. There is a great number of 
Methodists in the part of the parish surrounding the 
village, who are many of them very worthy people, and 
among the most regular attendants upon the church. 
With many of my flock I live upon affectionate terms. 
There is a fair proportion of religious men amongst 
them, with a due allowance of profligates. None of 
them rise so high as the class of gentlemen, but there 
is a good number of a very respectable description. 
I am particularly attentive to the school : there, in fact, 
I think most good can be done; and, besides the obvi- 
ous advantages, it is a means of conciliating all sects of 



104 REMAINS OF 

Christians, by taking an interest in the welfare of their 
children. 

Our Sunday-School is very large, and is attended by 
the Roman Catholics and Presbyterians : the day i# 
never a Sabbath to me ; however, it is the kind of la- 
bour that is best repaid, for you always find that some 
progress is made, some fruit soon produced ; whereas, 
your labouis with the old and the adult often fail of pro- 
ducing any effect, and, at the best, it is in general latent 
and gradual. 

Yours, &c. 
C. W." 



Castle Caulfield, April 27th, 1819. 

U MY DEAR 

# * * « jyjy congregation is much increased, 
and does not seem inclined to diminish, and there is a 
degree of piety in some of the highest orders of people 
in this county and the county Armagh, and a degree 
of propriety in others, that makes them alive to the 
conduct of clergymen, and active in their inquiries re- 
specting them. I never knew before, that a humble 
curate (a word that seems to imply the very essence of 
obscurity,) was so much a public character as I find he 
is, or should be, in the North, where the number of 
Protestants of different classes seems to have kept re- 
ligion more alive than in any other part. 

An event in my parish that should not be omitted, 
is the vestry. Some false and industrious reports had 

been spread respecting the object that and I 

had in view, in raising money for the foundation of the 
school we had in contemplation ; and a great number 
of people came for the purpose of voting against us. 
You, who know me, may judge of my anxiety at the 
prospect of having to fight, where I came to preach 
peace and charity, and my apprehension of falling out 
with Presbyterians, whom I feel desirous of conciliating, 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 105 

and with whom I have been on the most friendly foot- 
ing. At length the day arrived, when I made a speeth, 
clearing away all misrepresentations, and stating the 
exertions I had made. I was seconded very ably by 

; and the consequence was a most cordial and 

unanimous grant of <£JL40, with * long life to you Mr. 
Wolfe, and long may you reign over us V The good 
feeling that reigned throughout the whole, really made 
up one of the most gratifying scenes I have witnessed 
for a long time. 

Yours, &c. 
C. W." 



The following letter gives an affecting account of 
the death of a valued friend, to whom he had lately be- 
come particularly attached, the Rev. Dr. Meredith, 
formerly a fellow of Trinity College, Dublin, and then 
rector of Ardtrea. He was esteemed one of the most 
distinguished scholars in the university to which he 
belonged. His genius for mathematical acquirements 
especially, was universally allowed to be of the first 
order ; and his qualifications as a public examiner and 
lecturer were so eminent, as to render his early retire- 
ment from the duties of a fellowship a serious loss to 
the college. Of our author's talents he entertained the 
highest opinion ; and his congeniality of disposition 
soon led him to appreciate fully the still higher qualities 
of his heart. 

Castle Caulfield, May 4th, 1819. 

" MY DEAR 

" I am just come from the house of mourning ! Last 
night I helped to lay poor M : in his coffin, and fol- 
lowed him this morning to his grave. The visitation 
was truly awful. Last Tuesday (this day week) he was 
struck to the ground by a fit of apoplexy, and from that 
moment until the hour of his death, on Sunday evening, 



106 REMAINS OF 

he never articulated. I did not hear of his danger un- 
til Sunday evening, and yesterday morning I ran ten 
miles, like a madman, and was only in time to see hie 
dead body, it will be a cruel and bitter thought to 
me for many a day, that I had not one farewell from 
him, while he was on the brink of the world. Oh ! 

one of my heart-strings is broken ! the only way I 

have of describing my attachment to that man, is by 

telling you, that next to you and D , he was the 

person in whose society I took the greatest delight. A 
visit to Ardtrea was often in prospect, to sustain me in 
many of my cheerless labours. My gems are falling 
away ; but I do hope and trust, it is because ' God is 

making up his jewels.' Dr. M was a man of a 

truly Christian temper of mind. We used naturally to 
fall upon religious subjects ; and I now revert, with pe- 
culiar gratification, to the cordiality with which ' we 
took sweet counsel together,' upon those topics. You 
know that he was possessed of the first and most dis- 
tinguishing characteristic of a Christian disposition, hu* 

milky. He preached the Sunday before for , and 

the sermon was unusually solemn and impressive, and 
in the true spirit of the Gospel. Indeed, from several 
circumstances, he seems to have had some strange pre- 
sentiments of what was to happen. His air and look 

some time before his dissolution had, as told me, 

an expression of the most awful and profound devo- 
tion. * * • * * 

Yours, &c. 
C. W." 

On his return after another visit to Dublin, he thus 
writes. 

Castle Caulfield, Jan. 19th, 1820. 

" MY DEAR 

As it was the irksomeness of making a long apology 
at the beginning of my letter, that has for the last 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 107 

week deterred me from writing to you, I beg leave to re- 
move the obstacle altogether, and proceed to business, 
although you will find an apology in the course of the 
entertainment. You may remember the blunder that 
was said to have been committed by a certain historian, 
who had related a shipwreck that had taken place on 
the coast of Bohemia : do not, however, suspect me of 
the same ignorance of geography, when I inform you, 
that in my voyage from Dublin to Castle Caulfield, 
I was shipwrecked on the coast of Monaghan : until 
then I had always thought it an inland county ; but to 
my surprise, I found that half the country, between this 
place and Ardee, was under water. The fact is, a riv- 
er had overflowed the road, so as to render the bank 
undistinguishable, and the wheel went down ; another 
step would have upset us altogether ; and in a few days 
you might have seen me in the Newry paper. As it 
was, it cost me a raw hour between three and four in the 
morning, before we were able to weigh anchor again. 

Well, I was indeed highly pleased that the leaven 
had been working during my absence ; for though I 
was too late to go through the parish, and give them a 
regular summons, I found a greater number of commu- 
nicants on Christmas-day, than I think I had ever seen 
before in this church. Why, if I had stayed away 
another month, no one can calculate the improvement 
that might have been effected by my absence. Another 
comfortable consideration is, that there never was less 
duty to be done in the parish than while I was away, 
and never more than since I returned. The very day 
after my return, I was summoned to see a Presbyterian, 
and between them and my own people, I have had 
scarcely any rest ; and I assure you this has been the 
cause of my taciturnity. I do not think I have ever 
been so free from even the affectation of a cough, as 
since I returned. Long life to flannels and comforta- 
bles ! and a long life to those who bestow them, (' a long 
life —even forever!') 

My school, as I anticipated, has declined during the 



108 



REMAINS OP 



severity of the winter, but I expect it to revive with the 
spring, according to the course of nature. However, 
I have some fears that the Pone's letter will prove a frost 
— a killing frost. I should not be very much surprised 
to find it a forgery. 

Yours, &c. 
C. W." 

The sphere of duty in which Mr. W. was engaged, 
was extensive and laborious. A large portion of the 
parish was situated in a wild hilly country, abounding 
in bogs and trackless wastes ; and the population was so 
scattered, that it was a work of no ordinary difficulty 
to keep up that intercourse with his flock, upon which 
the success of a Christian minister so much depends. 
When he entered upon his work, he found the church 
rather thinly attended ; but in a short time the effects 
of his constant zeal, his impressive style of preaching, 
and his daily and affectionate converse with his parish- 
ioners, were visible in the crowded and attentive con- 
gregations which began to gather round him. 

The number of those who soon became regular at- 
tendants at (he holy communion, was so great, as to ex- 
ceed the whole ordinary congregation at the com- 
mencement of his ministry. 

Amongst his constant hearers were many of the 
Presbyterians, who seemed much attracted by the ear- 
nestness of his devotion in reading the Liturgy — the 
energy of his appeals, and the general simplicity of his 
lite ; and such was the respect they began to feel 
towards him, that they frequently sent for him to ad- 
minister spiritual comfort and support to them in the 
trying hour of sickness, and at the approach of death. 

A large portion of the Protestants in his parish were 
of that denomination ; and no small number were of 
the class of Wesleyan Methodists. Though differing 
on many points from these two bodies of Christians, he 
however maintained with them the most friendly inter- 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 109 

course, and entered familiarly into discussion on the 
subjects upon which they were at issue with him. 

There was nothing in the course of his duties as a 
clergyman (as he himself declared) which he found 
more difficult and trying at first, than how to discover 
and pursue the best mode of dealing with the numerous 
conscientious Dissenters in his parish, and especially 
with the Wesleyan Methodists, who claim connexion 
with the Church of England. While he lamented 
their errors, he revered their piety ; and at length suc- 
ceeded beyond his hopes in softening their prejudices, 
and conciliating their good will. This he effected by 
taking care, in his visits amongst them, to dwell par- 
ticularly upon the grand and vital truths in which he 
mainly agreed with them, and, above all, by a patience 
of contradiction (yet without a surrender or compro- 
mise of opinion) on the points upon which they differ- 
ed. It is a curious fact, that some of the Methodists, 
on a few occasions, sought to put his Christian char- 
acter to the test by purposely using harsh and humilia- 
ting expressions towards him, in their conversations 
upon the nature of religion. This strange mode of 
inquisition he was enabled to bear with the meekness 
of a child ; and some of them afterwards assured him, 
that they considered the temper with which such a trial 
is endured as a leading criterion of true conversion, and 
were happy to find in him so unequivocal proof of a re- 
generate spirit. 

They soon learned to value his instructions as a 
Christian minister, though conveyed in a manner differ- 
ent from what they usually heard, and divested of pe- 
culiarities which they habitually associated with the 
very essence of the Gospel. He says himself — " I am 
here between Methodists and Calvinists (or Presbyteri- 
ans,) and I have preached to both in the church, and 
conversed with both in the cottage ; and I have been 
sometimes amused to observe the awkward surprise 
with which they have heard me insist upon the great 

10 



110 REMAINS OF 

doctrines, without bringing in their own peculiar tenets, 
or using their own technical cant." 

From some hasty notes which he took down, it ap- 
pears that he sometimes entered into discussions with 
them on those views by which they seemed, to him, to 
confine the process of divine grace in the conversion of 
sinners within limits unauthorised by Scripture. The fol- 
lowing brief remarks (amongst others) shew the sobrie- 
ty of thought with which he entered into the considera- 
tion of such subjects. 

All system-makers cramp aud encumber religion, by 
telling you, that the mind of a sinner always proceeds 
through certain stages ; of conviction, repentance, faith, 
justification, &c. The mind when converted will in- 
deed have the same sense of the nature of sin, of human 
corruption, of the want of a Redeemer, &c. The end 
arrived at is the same ; but the ways of arriving at it 
are various, according to the variety of dispositions 
upon which it has to act. Thus, upon a profligate, a 
drunkard, an extortioner, and upon a man of liberal, 
generous, independent principles, I am sure the ways 
of acting are very different. Compare all the different 
instances of conversion in Scripture, the jailor, Lydia, 
Cornelius, the thief, &c. — But the Methodists adopt a 
class of converts, and deduce a general rule for their 
particular case ; whereas, there seems to be no general 
rule in Scripture. This is prescribing laws to God's 
Holy Spirit. He seems to have various ways of effect- 
ing a sinner's conversion, and of adapting himself to 
different dispositions : so that the method of a Metho- 
dist appears unfounded, in assigning a certain process. 

It is no weak proof of the Christian spirit, to be 
able to recognise the loveliness and sublimity of true 
piety in the lowliest or most forbidding forms ; to discern 
its excellence, though dwarfed by intellectual little- 
ness, or degraded by the mean garb of ignorance ; to 
revere it, even when surrounded by the most ludicrous 
accompaniments. It is, on the contrary, an index of 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. HI 

spiritual dulness, perhaps, of mental incapacity, to un- 
dervalue or despise any form of sound religion, merely 
on account of such disadvantageous associations. But 
our author held the great truths of Christianity so close 
to his heart, that nothing could intervene to cloud their 
beauty : his spiritual taste and perspicacity was such, 
that it quickly descried, and (as by a magnetic attraction) 
embraced a kindred spirit, in whatever guise it appear- 
ed. It could separate the dross ; it could detach the 
grosser elements ; and delighted to look forward to that 
happy time when the spirit of genuine religion, howev- 
er depressed by the meanness of the subject in which 
it happens to dwell, or disfigured by the unhappy com- 
binations with which, here on earth, it may be attend- 
ed, will assuredly shine forth in all its radiant purity 
and native grandeur. 

The success of a Christian pastor depends almost as 
much on the manner as the matter of his instruction. 
In this respect Mr. W. was peculiarly happy, especially 
with the lower classes of the people, who were much 
engaged by the affectionate cordiality and the simple 
earnestness of his deportment towards them. In his 
conversations with the plain farmer or humble labourer, 
he usually laid his hands upon their shoulder, or caught 
them by the arm ; and while he was insinuating his 
arguments, or enforcing his appeals with all the variety 
of simple illustrations which a prolific fancy could sup- 
ply, he fastened an anxious eye upon the countenance 
of the person he was addressing, as if eagerly awaiting 
some gleam of intelligence ; to shew that he was under- 
stood and felt. 

The solemnity, the tenderness, the energy of his 
manner, could not fail to impress upon their minds, at 
least, that his zeal for their souls was disinterested and 
sincere. 

The state of gross demoralization in which a large 
portion of the lower classes in his parish was sunk, 
rendered it necessary for him sometimes to adopt a 
style of preaching not the most consonant to his own 



112 REMAINS OF 

feelings. His natural turn of mind would have led him 
to dwell most upon the loftier motives, the more tender 
appeals, the gentler topics of persuasion with which the 
Gospel abounds; but the dull and stubborn natures 
which he had to encounter, frequently required " the 
terrors of the Lord" to be placed before them ; the vices 
he had to overthrow called for the strongest weapon he 
could wield. He often, indeed, sought to win such 
souls unto Christ by the attractive beauties and the be- 
nign spirit of the Gospel ; but, alas ! 

" Leviathan is not so tamed." 

Amongst the people whom he had to address he found 
drunkenness and impurity, and their base kindred 
vices, lamentably prevalent ; and therefore he felt it 
necessary to stigmatise such practices in the plainest 
terms : he could not find approach to minds of so coarse 
an order, without frequently arraying against them the 
most awful denunciations of Divine Justice. 

He seldom had his sermons fully written out and pre- 
pared for delivery ; yet this arose not from any dearth 
of mental resources, much less from confidence or neg- 
lect. It arose from an intense feeling of the awful re- 
sponsibility of the duty. His mind was not only im- 
pressed, but agitated, by the sense that he was "as a 
dying man speaking to dying men ;" and the solici- 
tude he felt as to the choice of his subject, the topics 
best suited to his purpose, the most lively and practical 
manner in which they might be presented, was the real 
cause which usually delayed his full preparation. He 
knew the vast importance of that brief space of time, 
during which a minister is permitted to address his 
flock ; and he was fearful lest an idle or unprofitable 
word should escape his lips, or lest those moments 
which are so pregnant with the concerns of eternity 
should be squandered away in vague harangue or bar- 
ren discussion. He was never satisfied with first 
thoughts ; he revolved them over and over,, with the 
hope that others more suitable, more striking, more 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 113 

perspicuous, might present themselves to his mind ; and 
thus he had seldom more than half his sermon commit* 
ted to paper when the time arrived for its delivery. 
However, his mind was so fully impregnated with his 
subject, and his command of language so prompt, that 
he never was at a loss to complete in the pulpit what he 
had left unfinished at his desk.* 

He had no temptation to a vain display of argumen- 
tative skill, or rhetorical accomplishments, or the mere 
graces of composition, in presence of the congregation 
he had to address ; and indeed he had attained such 
an elevation of mind and purity of heart, as to stand 
above the reach of such a snare in any situation. He 
did not despise such things ; he could appreciate their 
value, and make them tributary to the single object 
of his ministry. He seemed fully sensible of the ad- 
vantage and necessity of a chaste embellishment of 
style, such as is recommended by Augustine, who says, 
that a sermon is perfect in this respect, when " nee 
inornata relinquitur, nee indecenter ornatur." He avail- 
ed himself also of the powers of a poetic and vivid 
imagination, not so much to adorn or beautify, as to 
illustrate and enforce his subject ; to gain entrance 
into the understanding, and take the passions by sur- 
prise. 

During the year that the typhus fever raged most vio- 
lently in the north of Ireland, his neighbourhood was 
much afflicted with the disease ; and thus the important 
duty of visiting the sick (which to him was always a 
work of most anxious solicitude) was vastly increased ; 
and he accordingly applied himself with indefatigable 
zeal in every quarter of his extended parish, in admin- 
istering temporal and spiritual aid to his poor flock. In 
the discharge of such duties he exposed himself to fre- 
quent colds ; and his disregard of all precaution, and 

* This appearance of extemporaneous preaching brought him into 
much favour with the good Presbyterians and Methodists, who flocked 
to hear him. Some of them were indeed so pleased with his manner, 
as to say, " he would almost do for a meeting minister." 

10* 



114 REMAINS OF 

of the ordinary comforts of life to which he had been 
accustomed, soon, unhappily, confirmed a consumptive 
tendency in his constitution, of which some symptoms 
appeared when in college. His frame was robust, and 
his general health usually strong; but an habitual 
cough, of which he himself seemed almost unconscious, 
often excited the apprehensions of his friends ; and 
at length, in the spring of 1S21, the complaint, of 
which it seemed the forerunner, began to make mani- 
fest inroads upon his constitution. No arguments, how- 
ever, could for a long time dissuade him from his usual 
work. So little did he himself regard the fatal symp- 
toms, that he could not be prevailed upon to relax his 
parochial labours. At length, however, his altered 
looks and other unfavourable symptoms appeared so 
alarming, that some of his most respectable parishion- 
ers wrote to his friends in Dublin to urge them to use 
their influence in persuading him to retire for awhile 
from his arduous duties, and to have the best medical 
advice for him without further delay. But such was 
the anxiety he felt for his parish, and so little conscious 
did he seem of the declining state of his health, that no 
entreaties could avail. 

The repeated accounts of his sinking health at last 
impelled the friend who now feebly attempts this hum- 
ble record of his worth, to set off at once to visit him, 
and to use all his influence to induce him to submit to 
what appeared so plainly the will of Providence, and 
to suspend his labours until his strength should be suffi- 
ciently recruited to resume them with renewed vigour. 
In the mean time (about the middle of May 1821) he 
had been hurried off to Scotland by the importunate 
entreaties of a kind and respected brother clergyman 
in his neighbourhood, in order to consult a physician 
celebrated for his skill in such cases. On his way to 
Edinburgh he happened to fall in with a deputation 
from the Irish tract-society, who were going to that city 
to hold a meeting for the promotion of their important 
objects. Notwithstanding the languor of his frame, 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 115 

and the irritation of a harrassing cough, he was pre- 
vailed upon to exert his eloquence in this interesting 
cause. In some of the speeches made upon that occa- 
sion he thought that the dark side of the character of 
his countrymen had been strongly exhibited, while the 
brighter part was almost entirely kept out of view. 
With characteristic feeling he stood up to present the 
whole image, with all its beauties as well as its defects. 
His address was taken down in short-hand, and sub- 
mitted to him for a hurried correction as he was step- 
ping into his carriage. The following outline which 
was preserved may appear worth insertion. 

SPEECH BEFORE A MEETING OF THE IRISH 
TRACT SOCIETY, EDINBURGH, MAY, 1821. 

SIR, 

I have not the vanity to imagine that the words of 
an obscure individual, who is a total stranger to almost 
all those whom he addresses, and, except within a few 
days, a stranger to the country which they inhabit, 
could produce any considerable effect in exciting you 
to the pc rformance of your duty, or in recommending 
the object which you are assembled to promote. 

I only rise to express my thanks on the part of that 
country which I should find it impossible to love and 
value as I ought, without also regarding with affection 
that country which has proved itself her benefactor. 
I confess that I perform this office with shame and mor- 
tification : I should wish to have seen my country 
standing forth in the proud character of a benefactress, 
and taking her rank amongst those whose privilege it 
is "to give gifts unto men," instead of appearing in the 
attitude of a suppliant, with a petition in her hand. 
Perhaps it is right that these proud feelings should be 
humbled ; perhaps the two countries thus occupy that 
relative situation which they are best qualified to fill ; 
— perhaps Scotland is formed to yield assistance; but 
assuredly there is in Ireland all the heart to return it. 



116 



REMAINS OF 



The Irish character seems to possess a greater capa- 
bility either of good or of evil than that of any other 
nation upon the face of the globe. There is a quickness 
of intellect, a vivacity of fancy, a restlessness of curi- 
osity, and a warmth of heart, that can be turned either 
to the very best or the very worst of purposes, and form 
the elements either of the most exalted or the most de- 
graded of rational beings. They in some degree re- 
semble in their effects the power and versatility of fire, 
that sometimes bursts from the volcano, and overflows 
and desolates the whole scene by which it is surround* 
ed ; that is son etimes applied by the incendiary to the 
house where the family are sleeping at midnight, and 
consumes them in their beds ; or can be turned by pow- 
erful and complicated machinery to the service of man ; 
that can be made to rise in incense before the throne of 
God in heaven. And thus also these elements, when 
either left to themselves, or perverted by designing and 
wicked men, can form the most atrocious character that 
ever moved upon the face of the earth : but if the light 
of the Gospel of Jesus Christ shines in upon them, they 
compose the most illustrious specimen of an exalted and 
truly spiritual Christian that perhaps we shall here be 
permitted to behold. This is not mere theory and fond 
speculation : we have proofs of both. Alas ! for the 
first we have only to appeal to the melancholy state- 
ments of depravity which you have just heard ; and 
for the second, we have only to appeal to the state of 
religion in Ireland at this instant : for, sir, in Ireland 
" the winter is past, and the spring is begun ;" and there 
is, in the religious aspect of the country, an appearance 
of growth, a promise and anticipation almost more de- 
lightful than the fulfilment. There is a spiritual glow 
throughout the land ; and when the power of religious 
truth acts upon a warm and generous heart, and sends 
all its energy in one direction, it produces a beautiful 
specimen of living and devoted Christianity ; and we 
are spared in Ireland, probably more than in any other 
country, that most tremendous of all moral spectacles, 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 117 

more tremendous than even the debauchee plunging 
into sensuality — the spectacle of a man with the light 
of the Gospel in his head, without its warmth in his 
heart. From this view of the Irish character, it is ob- 
vious that they require both unceasing attention, and 
the greatest delicacy in the treatment. Such a people 
must have constant food for the mind, food for the fancy, 
food for the affections : if it is not given, they will find 
it for themselves, and therefore both great liberality and 
great judgment are necessary in supplying it. I can 
testify, from actual observation, to the insatiable avidity 
with which tracts are sought, and the deep interest 
which is excited in those who peruse them. We trust, 
then, the good work will go on, and that Scotland will 
rejoice to see the sun of Ireland arise ; and, though it 
may not be given to this generation to behold it, yet our 
posterity will see the day, when Ireland shall rise from 
the posture of a suppliant, and take her station by the 
side of Scotland. 

On his return from Scotland, the writer met him at 
a friend's house within a few miles of his own resi- 
dence ; and, on the following Sunday, accompanied 
him through the principal part of his parish to the 
church ; and never can he forget the scene he witness- 
ed as they drove together along the road, and through 
the village. It must give a more lively idea of his 
character and conduct as a parish clergyman than any 
laboured delineation, or than a mere detail of particu- 
lar facts. As he quickly passed by, all the poor people 
and children ran out to their cabin-doors to welcome 
him, with looks and expressions of the most ardent af- 
fection, and with all that wild devotion of gratitude so 
characteristic of the Irish peasantry. Many fell upon 
their knees invoking blessings upon him ; and long af- 
ter they were out of hearing, they remamed in the 
same attitude, shewing by their gestures that they were 
still offering up prayers for him ; and some even follow- 
ed the carriage a long distance, making the most anx- 



119 REMAINS OF 

ious inquiries about his health. He was sensibly moved 
by this manifestation of feeling, and met it with all 
that heartiness of expression, and that affectionate sim- 
plicity of manner, whicii made him as much an object 
of love, as his exalted virtues rendered him an object of 
respect. The intimate knowledge he seemed to have 
acquired of all their domestic histories, appeared from 
the short but significant inquiries he made of each in- 
dividual as he was hurried along ; while, at the same 
time, he gave a rapid sketch of the particular charac- 
ters of several who presented themselves — pointing to 
one with a sigh, and to another with looks of fond con- 
gratulation. It was, indeed, impossible to behold a 
scene like this (which can scarcely be described) with- 
out the deepest but most pleasing emotions. It seemed 
to realise the often-imagined picture of a primitive 
minister of the Gospel of Christ, living in the hearts of 
his flock, " willing to spend, and to be spent upon 
them," and enjoying the happy interchange of mutual 
affection. It clearly shewed the kind of intercourse 
that habitually existed between him and his parishion- 
ers ; and afforded a pleasing proof, that a faithful and 
firm discharge of duty, when accompanied by kindly 
sympathies and gracious manners, can scarcely fail to 
gain the hearts of the humbler ranks of the people. 

It can scarcely be a matter of surprise that he should 
feel much reluctance in leaving a station where his 
ministry appeared to be so useful and acceptable ; and 
accordingly, though peremptorily required by the phy- 
sician he had just consulted, to retire for some time 
from all clerical duties, it was with difficulty he could 
be dislodged from his post, and forced away to Dublin, 
where most of his friends resided. 

It was hoped that timely relaxation from duty, and 
a change in his mode of living to what he had been 
originally accustomed, and suitable to the present deli- 
cate state of his health, might avert the fatal disease 
with which he was threatened. The habits of his life, 
while he resided on his cure, were in every respect 



THE REV. C. WOLFE, 119 

calculated to confirm his constitutional tendency to 
consumption. He seldom thought of providing a regu- 
lar meal ; and his humble cottage exhibited every ap- 
pearance of the neglect of the ordinary comforts of 
life. A few straggling rush-bottomed chairs, piled up 
with his books, a small rickety table before the fire- 
place, covered with parish memoranda, and two trunks 
containing all his papers — serving at the same time to 
cover the broken parts of the floor, — constituted all the 
furniture of his sitting-room. The mouldy walls of the 
closet in which he slept were hanging with loose folds 
of damp paper ; and between this wretched cell and his 
parlour was the kitchen, which was occupied by the 
disbanded soldier, his wife, and their numerous brood 
of children, who had migrated with him from his first 
quarters, and seemed now in full possession of the whole 
concern, entertaining him merely as a lodger, and 
usurping the entire disposal of his small plot of ground, 
as the absolute lords of the soil. 

After he left this comfortless home, he resigned him- 
self entirely to the disposal of his family. Though his 
malady seemed to increase, and his frame to become 
more emaciated, still his natural spirits and mental 
elasticity continued unimpaired, — so much so, that he 
continued to preach occasionally in Dublin with his 
usual energy, until the friendly physician to whom he 
had now submitted his case absolutely forbade all pre- 
sent exercise of clerical duties. 

His anxiety about the provision for his duties in his 
parish, seemed for a long time materially to interrupt 
every enjoyment which might tend to his recovery. In- 
deed, his feelings were so alive to the subject, that he 
could scarcely be satisfied with any arrangement which 
his kind clerical friends could make for him, under 
conviction that no occasional deputy can fully fill the 
place of the regular minister of the parish ; and un- 
happily the advanced age and infirmities of his rector 
rendered any exertions on his part impracticable. But 
he shall speak for himself. 



120 REMAINS OF 

Dublin, May 28th, 1821. 



MY DEAR MRS. 



I did not wish to write until something decisive had 

occurred ; and at length the die is cast : Doctor 

has, in fact, stripped me of my gown. You may con- 
ceive me obstinate, when I confess that even his opin- 
ion has not yet, in my mind, justified the alarm of my 
friends, or convinced me of my danger ; but however, 
it has done what is more essential and more satisfacto- 
ry ; it has shewn me the course which Providence di- 
rects me to take, and this is the only question for me to 
decide ; the rest is in better hands. The dread I felt 
of choosing for myself, instead of ' running the race that 
is set before me,' is removed ; and I now feel myself 
obliged to resign, at least for a season, the trust which 
was reposed in me. What the ultimate event may be, 
and whether I shall ever be again permitted to exercise 
my ministry in Castle Caulfield, I cannot foresee ; and 
although I am thus replaced amongst my oldest friends, 
and where natural inclination would lead me, I cannot 
but look with the liveliest regret at the possibility of 
never returning to a parish to which I was bound, for 
three years, by the most solemn ties, and to a family in 
which I have experienced the most unwearied kind- 
ness and affection. I do not conceal from you the great 
anxiety I feel that my successor, whether he is to be 
temporary or permanent, may be an active, spiritual 
minister. I do not know indeed that any circumstance 
would give me more pain than that my poor flock 
should fall into the hands of a careless, worldly-minded 
pastor. * * * * * 

Yours, &c. 
C. W." 



THE REV. C. WOLFE, 121 

Dublin, June 14th, 1621 . 

" MY DEAR 

Although I have nothing conclusive to relate, I feel 
as if, in this state of uncertainty, my silence would look 
like neglect. Having failed in my attempts to procure ft 
temporary substitute, and being absolutely withheld bf 
my friends from returning, I at length came to the reso- 
lution of resigning the trust reposed in me. However 
painful it might be to my feelings, I could no longer 
reconcile it to myself to leave the parish in such a state 
of disorder and confusion. I know that wherever 
there is not a minister resident in the parish, every 
thing is at a stand ; the sick and the schools are not at- 
tended to, and those that are in health are ' left to walk 
in their own ways.' I could not divest myself of a sense 
of responsibility for all these consequences. 

Actuated by these motives, I waited upon the pri 
mate, and tendered my resignation. He liesitated tc 
accept it, and urged me to continue my search for e 
substitute. * * * As soon as any thing is 
determined on, I shall let you know. 

Yours, &>c. 
C. W." 



Blackhall, July 24th, 1631. 

" MY DEAR 

* * If I had known, at the commence • 
ment of this business, that matters would have continu- 
ed so long in a state of uncertainty, I would have fig- 
turned to my post at all hazards. I felt so much dis- 
tress, not only at the deserted state of my parish, but 
also at the trouble and embarrassment that I have occa- 
sioned to my friends, that I made three attempts to re- 
sign, in which I failed. A very little thing would make 
me break jail, for I feel myself strong enough for such 

/ 11 



122 REMAINS OF 

an undertaking ; but I am not allowed to have an opin- 
ion upon this subject : therefore it is that I generally 
say little about it in my letters. When any of my poor 
people inquire for me, you may tell them that nothing 
would injure my health more than to hear that my flock 
was scattered. I am very happy to hear so favourable 
an account of the parish, and Sunday-school ; for the 
latter of which, I know to whom I am principally in- 
debted. 

I do indeed lament that I am not at hand when you 
fancy I could minister consolation ; but I know, by ex- 
perience, that God often removes from us every earthly 
support, in order to draw us near to himself, and to 
prevent us from trusting to the creature rather than the 
Creator ; and he sometimes puts ' lover and friend far 
from us, and removes our acquaintance out of sight/ 
in order that he may break through all disguises, and 
reveal himself as our all-sufficient Friend. Give my 

blessing and my most affectionate regards to Mrs. ; 

remember me to each and all at Mr. -. 

Yours, &c. 
C. W.' 



Black Rock, June 13th, 1821. 

'' DEAR SIR, 

I regret very much, that although you have been a 
considerable time in the neighbourhood of Castle 
Caulfield, I am able to address you only by letter. I as- 
sure you it was fully my intention to have returned your 
visit ; but the duties of an extensive parish, which I 
had not been able to reduce into any kind of system, 
and which were rendered more laborious by the want 
of a horse, repeatedly prevented me from fulfilling it. 
Indeed, the occasion of the present letter is in some 
degree a proof. The irregularity of my movements in 
my parish produced a degree of inattention to my 
health, and gave rise to some symptoms of an attack 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 



123 



upon my lungs, which have alarmed my friends, and 
induced them to take me altogether out of my own 
hands, and placed me under the jurisdiction of a phy- 
sician, who has actually stripped me of my gown, and 
interdicted me, under pain of a consumption, from the 
performance of any clerical duty for a very considera- 
ble time. I have made several unavailing attempts to 
procure a temporary substitute ; and being unwilling to 
leave my poor flock any longer without a shepherd, I 
waited upon the primate, and tendered my resignation, 
but he hesitated to accept it. 

My chief object is to provide an active and zealous 
minister for a parish in whose spiritual welfare I can- 
not cease to feel a lively interest. 

Yours, &c. 
0.- W." 



" DEAR SIR, 

* ■ * * With respect to catechising the children; 
there is a lamentable deficiency, arising from a difficul- 
ty that I found it more easy to discover than to remove. 
In a very large parish, particularly where they are not 
collected in any considerable numbers in a town, it is 
impossible that any one day or any one place will suf- 
fice. My desire of devising a method that would fully 
meet the want, and which I trusted would suggest it- 
self upon a closer acquaintance with the parish, indu- 
ced me to delay the adoption of some that might have 
been of partial service ; and the wish of effecting more 
than perhaps could be done, prevented me from doing 
all that might have been done ; so that even on Sun- 
days I did not make the catechising as distinct from the 
business of the Sunday-school as I ought. I shall be 
very happy, if I am ever to succeed you, to follow any 
plan or improvement that you may introduce. * * * 

I have been occupied and agitated by preparations 
for my departure for the Continent, and inquiries as to 



l%f REMAINS OF 

the best destination for invalids, which have not yet 
been satisfactorily answered ; these, and my removal to 
town, where I have become the victim of leeches and 
blisters, have prevented me from undertaking an an- 
swer to your letter, which could not be done extempore. 
as I fear you will perceive by the length of this epistle 

Yours, &c. 
C. W." 

For some months after his removal from his parish, 
his health appeared to fluctuate, as is sometimes the 
case at the commencement of such complaints as his ; 
and it was considered necessary, towards the approach 
of winter, that he should go to the South of France, 
as the most probable means of averting from him the 
threatened malady. In his attempt to reach Bourdeaux, 
Ije was twice driven back to Holyhead by violent and 
adverse gales, and suffered so much from the effects, 
that it was deemed prudent to abandon the plan, and 
settle near Exeter during the winter and ensuing 
spring. From this place his next letters were written. 

Exeter, Feb. 18th, 1822. 

" MY DEAR 

Welcome once more !* I feel as if we had a second 
parting when we last exchanged letters ; and now that 
we once more renew a correspondence, it looks like a 
meeting after a long separation. But you may be assu- 
red that neither you nor yours were forgotten by me at 
those times when I knew you would most wish to be 
remembered ; those seasons at which, I trust, I am re- 
membered by you all. I will not trouble you with all 
the tedious reasons of my silence ; the silence itself 
was tedious enough. Suffice it to say, that a man may 

* The remainder of the above was upon the subject of an offer. 
which had just been made to him, of the curacy of Armagh ; apost of 
great importance and responsibility, with regard to which proposal he 
felt the most anxious embarrassment. — EnrroR. 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 1*25 

be very idle, and have no leisure, especially no leisure 
of mind ; and that a man's time may be in a great 
measure unoccupied, and yet not his own. I will not 
tell you of the length of time it takes to wind me up 
and set me a-going for the day ; but I find that the 
toilette of an invalid is as long and as troublesome as 
that of a dutchess, — and perhaps the whole day often 
spent with little more profit. It will be sufficient to teli 
you, that I can scarcely make out an hour and a half a 
day for actual study. * * 

Yours, &c. 
C. W." 



Exeter, April 2d, 1822. 

" MY DEAR MRS. — 

If I had written to you as often as I intended it 3 
since I left Ireland, you would have been by this time 
weary of my correspondence. Often and often I have 
reproached myself, for leaving some of my best and 
kindest friends the least room for suspecting me to be 
guilty of forgetfulness or indifference ; but you have 
witnessed so much of those fatal habits of delay and 
procrastination, by which I am pre-eminently distin- 
guished, that you are not at a loss to assign a cause for 
my silence, without being reduced to the necessity of 
accusing me of coldness and ingratitude. Indeed, from 
having observed my sad deficiency in corresponding 
with the nearest members of my own family, you may 
well say, ' Well ! after all, sure he has treated me as 
his sister.' * * * 

You have heard of course from of our re- 
peated attempts to reach Bourdeaux, and our repeated 
disappointments, having been twice driven back to 
Holyhead. There we lived for a month in a state of 
anxious uncertainty, not knowing each day what was 
to be our destination on the morrow ; and when at 

11* 



**6 REMAINS OF 

length we arrived at this place, I relaxed into a state of 
lassitude and debility, and my cough grew worse : how- 
ever, with the blessing of God, I think my cough con- 
siderably reduced, and my strength, in some degree, 
returning. Whatever good effect has been produced, I 
may attribute, under the Father of all mercies, to the 
friends whom I trust I may say He has provided for 
me. Of the unwearied and devoted affection of my 
sisters, who accompanied me, I shall say nothing ; but 
the Christian friends that I have found, where I expect- 
ed to meet none but strangers, I should feel myself al- 
most guilty of ingratitude, if I did not mention. 

I am now writing under the roof of a fellow-coun- 
tryman, a brother Christian and a brother in the minis- 
try, who has become an excellent physician by sad and 
constant experience in his own person, and who has 
taken me altogether under his own care, and who does 
not allow me to move, speak, write, or think, except by 
special permission ; and this, by the by, is the reason 
that this letter comes limping so slowly after its prede- 
cessor, which I trust has long since reached you. Un- 
der the care of this kind physician and truly exalted 
Christian, in whose family I am almost domesticated, I 
think I find my strength returning. — But I must pass to 
a subject far less agreeable than this, to the curacy of 
Armagh. I suppose you have been already informed 

by that it was offered me by Lord L , and that, 

after much hesitation and anxiety, I accepted it. It 
cannot be necessary to tell you that it was altogether 
unsolicited ; indeed, so much so, that I was equally sur- 
prised and dismayed by the offer. I shrunk from it al- 
most instinctively, when I considered not only the aw- 
ful responsibility of the office itself, but the numerous 
appendages attached to it, the chaplaincy of the garri- 
son, the chaplaincy and inspectorship of the jail, and 
the superintendence of several charitable institutions. 
£t is indeed one of the very last situations I should 
choose if I consulted either my own ease or emolu- 
ment. * * * 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 127 

* Who is sufficient for these things ?'~-It was the 
very answer to this question that made me hesitate to 
refuse ; for no man is sufficient for these things, and 
yet some one must undertake them ; and I feared that I 
should be guilty of distrusting Him whose * strength is 
made perfect in weakness/ and of consulting my own 
ease and convenience in preference to his service, if I 
declined it. I therefore conceived it best to reply that 
I was willing to undertake it ; but could not possibly 
name any period within which I could engage to enter 
upon it in person ; nor could I make any exertion to 
obtain a substitute. I was informed in answer, that the 
primate had approved of my nomination, and that eve- 
ry exertion would be made to obtain a substitute, which 
however is found to be more difficult than was imagin- 
ed, both on account of the weight of duty, and the in- 
definite period for which he would be required. If per- 
mitted to decide for myself, I would have engaged to 
return before June ; but my friends, both old and new, 
who have taken me altogether out of my own hands, 
and who have me completely in their power, will not al- 
low me to name any time for returning to my duties. — 

My dear Mrs. , I feel it a great relief to think 

that I am writing to one who can fully enter into my 
feelings and motives ; and that, in relating my views 
and conduct in this business, I am in no danger of be- 
ing misunderstood : and surely you cannot but enter 

into my feelings when I convey through you to Mr. 

the resignation of the curacy of Donoughmore. In- 
deed, if you do not give me credit for them, I am afraid 
it would be hopeless to attempt to express them. Will 
you allow me to intrust you with my farewell to all my 

friends, both at M and in the parish ? Assure 

Mr. and Mrs. that I shall never forget the kind- 
ness and hospitality I have enjoyed under their roof ; 

and give my kindest remembrance to , and my 

solemn blessing to all those of my flock to whom you 
think it will be of any value : but how shall I say fare- 
well to you and Mrs. , who have indeed treated 

me as a brother and a son 1 I can only commend you 



128 REMAINS OF 

to One who has said that ' whoso doeth the will of his 
Father, the same is his brother, and sister, and mother ;' 
the great Shepherd of the sheep, who, unlike other 
shepherds, will never leave or forsake them. It is pain- 
ful to hear that many have wandered from the fold ; 
but there are some who, I trust, have seen and felt the 
glory and love of Christ, and will hold fast their confi- 
dence unto the end. I hope, if I am indeed ever set- 
tled in Armagh, to see you face to face. 

Yours, &c. 
C. W." 



Oswestry, May 22, 1822, 

" MY DEAR MRS. 

We are thus far on our way to poor Ireland, for bet- 
ter for worse ; and we propose to rest here for a few 
days, with our friends who have accompanied us. My 
strength is, I trust, considerably improved ; but my 
cough not considerably abated. 

I hope soon to ascertain when I shall be able to 
return to active duty. So much for myself ; — but how 
tremendous was the primate's death ! what a thunder- 
stroke ! the thing itself, and the circumstances attend- 
ing it were sufficiently appalling, — but to us its probable 
consequences are most distressing. Poor Castle Caul- 
field ! what will become of it now 1 How the Lord 
seems to have disappointed my calculations ! but per- 
haps it is only to shew that he can do things much bet- 
ter his own way, as he often fulfils our best desires in 
the manner we least expected, in order that while he 
comforts he may humble us, and teach us to ascribe all 
the glory to him. And we should not forget, that we 
may promote the cause as much by our prayers as by 
our contrivances and exertions. What a privilege it 
is, and what a consolation, that we have One upon 
whom we may cast our cares ; and that in our closets, 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 120 

when no one hears or dreams of it, we may ask of the 
' great Shepherd and Bishop,' that he would appoint a 
faithful pastor over the sheep that are scattered — and 
be heard ! At the same time we should use whatever 
legitimate means are in our reach to effect the object of 
our prayer. 

But this brings me to the chief subject of your last 
letter — the wandering of your mind in prayer. Per- 
haps the evil of our nature never displays itself more 
fully than in our religious acts and exercises ; and the 
more enlightened and experienced a true Christian be- 
comes, the more does he discover of the sinfulness of 
his nature, and of the pollutions and mixed motives of 
even his best performances. But there is a gracious 
provision made for these. Towards the close of the 
4th of Hebrews you will find, ' that we have not an 
high priest that cannot be touched with a feeling of our 
infirmities ; but was in all points tempted like as we 
are, yet without sin :' and, at the end of the same 
chapter, this is again urged as a motive for coming 
* boldly to the throne of grace :' and if you look to (I 
believe) the 4th chapter of Leviticus, you will see that 
the great high priest was * to bear the iniquity of the 
holy things of the people of God.' This is our en- 
couragement and consolation in approaching the throne 
of grace, that there is One who enters into all our feel- 
ings, and sympathises with us in our infirmities, and 
yet, at the same time, is almighty to save ! This is the 
glory of that truth — that the divine and human nature 
are united in one person, and that he oilers our feeble 
and imperfect petitions with irresistible energy and ef- 
fect. This consideration, at the same time, so far from 
damping our fervour in prayer, or inducing us to give 
way to wandering thoughts or coldness of feeling while 
engaged in it, will be an additional incentive to earnest- 
ness and devotion. It will, by removing fear, increase 
our confidence ; it will kindle greater love to that gra- 
cious Intercessor ; and we shall look forward with 
greater hope to that period when all languor and cor- 



*30 REMAINS OF 

ruption shall be done away. The Lord direct, and 
sanctify, and sustain you, and crown you and yours 
with every blessing. 

Yours with the sincerest affection, 

C. W." 

After his return from Exeter, he remained during the 
summer with his friends in and near Dublin. His gen- 
eral health appeared not to have undergone any materi* 
al change in the mean time ; but his cough continued 
so violent and distressing that he was ordered to go to 
Bourdeaux, and back again, for the benefit of the voy- 
age. He thus writes to a near relative, on his arrival 
there. 

Bourdeaux, 29th August, 1822. 

" MY DEAR 

This morning, after an anxious and boisterous voy- 
age, we cast anchor in front of Bourdeaux. From 
Saturday night till Thursday morning we were strug^ 
gling through the channel, — at one time in danger of 
being becalmed, and at others endeavouring to make 
the best of violent and unfavourable winds, until at 
length, early on Thursday, we were swept past the 
Land's End by a rapid gale. Late on the evening of 
the same day we came within view of the island of 
Ushant, and entered the formidable Bay of Biscay. It 
was, however, so smooth and beautiful, and the clear 
French sky over our heads, and the warm elastic air 
about us, were so enlivening, that the terrible bay seem- 
ed to welcome and invite us ; and during the whole of 
Friday we sailed gently and quietly along ; and the 
deadly and incessant sickness under which I had la- 
boured until then, and which I will not attempt to de- 
scribe, began to give way, and I almost enjoyed the 
scene. But on Saturday it threw off its disguise, and 
began to appear in its real character, and we were tos- 
sed and lashed furiously along, till at length, on Sunday 
morning, after a stormy night, to our great refreshment, 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 131 

we arrived at the mouth of the Garonne, about sixty 
miles from Bourdeaux. If it had not been the Lord's 
day, which I would gladly have spent in another way, I 
should have sincerely enjoyed the scene, in sailing up 
the noblest and grandest river I ever beheld. We an- 
chored that night at Pauillac, half way up the river be- 
tween the mouth and the city. For the first time, I 
slept as it were upon dry land, and rose this morning 
refreshed. The sail from Pauillac to Bourdeaux was 
indeed delightful ; but the repose I now enjoy infinitely 
more so ; for all the passengers are gone ashore but 
myself, and I spend the remainder of the day quietly on 
board the packet alone, where I shall sleep to-night, 
and will go to-morrow early to look for lodgings. My 
cough only appeared occasionally during the voyage, 
and was never violent or continued ; and I have been 
told by all the passengers that there was a very remark- 
able improvement visible towards the close of the voy- 
age. The heat is very severe, but the sky very clear 
and beautiful. I will not say any thing of the passen- 
gers, &c. as I hope this letter will not reach you much 
sooner than myself. 

I feel indeed that I have been most graciously 
dealt with ; and that the same good Providence that 
before forbade me to go, has now gone along with me. 
May he be with you ! 

Yours, &c. 
C. W." 

In less than a month he returned from Bourdeaux, 
and seemed to have derived some benefit from the voy- 
age ; but this was of short continuance. The fatal 
disease which had been long apprehended proved to 
have taken full hold of his constitution ; his strength 
appeared to sink fast, and his spirits to flag. The 
bounding step, which expressed a constant buoyancy of 
mind, now became slow and feeble ; his robust and up- 
right figure began to droop ; his marked and prominent 
features acquired a sharpness of form, and his complex- 



132 REMAINS OP 

ion, naturally fair, assumed the pallid cast of wasting 
disease ; and all the other symptoms of consumption 
soon discovered themselves ; and, 

" Even when his serious eyes were lighted up 
With kindling mirth, and from his lips distilled 
Words soft as dew and cheerful as the dawn, 
Then too I could have wept ; for on his face, 
Eye, voice, and smile, nor less his bending frame-— 
By other cause impaired than length of years — 
Lay something that still turned the thoughtful heart 
To melancholy dreams — dreams of decay, 
Of death, and burial, and the silent tomb." 

It is indeed the privilege of the Christian to look far 
above those dreary scenes, — to fasten his eye upon that 
light which burns beyond the tomb ; but still, some* 
times the sight of a dying friend will naturally turn the 
thoughts to the more immediate circumstances of death ; 
and this, perhaps, most of all, at the moment when one 
suddenly discerns, with a startled conviction, the first 
sure and ominous vestige of death upon the counte- 
nance of a beloved object. But faith will not dwell upon 
such thoughts — " such melancholy dreams :" it will 
look up with serene and holy confidence to " Him who 
is the resurrection and the life ;" and thus comfort it- 
self with an unfailing consolation. 

About the end of November it was thought advisa- 
ble, as the last remaining hope, that he should guard 
against the severity of the winter, by removing to the 
Cove of Cork, which, by its peculiar situation, is shel- 
tered on all sides from the harsh and prevailing winds. 
Thither he was accompanied by the writer and a near 
relative to whom he was fondly attached. For a short 
time he appeared to revive a little ; and sometimes en- 
tered into conversation with almost his usual anima- 
tion ; but the first unfavourable change of weather 
shattered his remaining strength : his cough now be- 
came nearly incessant, and a distressing languor weigh- 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. *3S 

ed down his frame. In this state he continued until 
the 21st of February, 1823, upon the morning of which 
day he expired, in the 32d year of his age. 

During the whole course of his illness (though, to- 
wards the close, apparently not unconscious of his dan- 
ger) he never expressed any apprehensions to his 
friends, but once, that he suddenly observed a new 
symptom, to which he pointed with a look and expres- 
sion of the gentlest, calmest resignation. He seemed 
particularly on his guard against uttering a word which 
could excite the fears of the dear relative who clung so 
devotedly to him until his last moments. A short time 
before he died, she ventured to disclose to him her long- 
concealed apprehensions, saying (with a humility like 
his own,) that she felt she needed correction ; and 
that, at last, the Lord had sent " a worm into her 
gourd." " What !" replied he, " is it in afflicting me ? 
— indeed, I believe you love me sinfully : I may, how- 
ever, bless this illness if it leads me to more spiritual 
communion with you than before." 

One night that his animal spirits were particularly 
depressed, he said to her, " I want comfort to night :" 
and upon her reminding him of the blessings he had 
been the instrument of conveying to the souls of many 
of his nearest relatives, he faintly exclaimed, " Stop, 
stop — that is comfort enough for one night." 

It is natural for a religious mind to feel a lively in- 
terest in every record of the last illness and death of 
any eminent servant of God — to expect some happy 
evidences of triumphant faith and holy resignation in 
such a trying state — at the awful moment when all the 
vast realities of an eternal world are about to be dis- 
closed to the disembodied spirit. There are some per- 
sons who perhaps look for such evidences chiefly in ar- 
dent ejaculations, in affecting expressions of self-hu- 
miliation, in palpable impressions of present comfort, 
or raptures of joyful anticipation ; but these may not 
be, after all, unequivocal or indispensable tests of the 
presence and power of true faith. It should not be 

12 



134 



REMAINS OF 



forgotten how much depends upon the state of the ani- 
mal system at such times, upon the nature of the com- 
plaint, or even on the peculiar constitution of the mind 
itself. As in the case of the steadfast and holy Chris- 
tian here recorded, the disease may be such as to en- 
cumber the faculties of the soul by a peculiar pressure 
upon the body : the corruptible part may " weigh down 
the mind which museth on many things," and thus in- 
capacitate it for any energetic manifestation of its feel- 
ings. It was the nature of his particular malady to 
bring on an oppressive lassitude of spirits ; and he was 
also afflicted with a raking cough, which for some time 
before his death disabled him from speaking a single 
sentence without incurring a violent paroxysm. 

One interesting fact, however, may prove, with more 
certainty than a thousand rapturous expressions, the as- 
cendancy of his faith in the midst of these depressing 
circumstances. 

On the day before his dissolution, the medical gen- 
tleman who attended him felt it his duty to apprise 
him of his immediate danger, and expressed himself 
thus : " Your mind, sir, seems to be so raised above 
this world that I need not fear to communicate to you 
my candid opinion of your state." " Yes, sir," replied 
he, " I trust I have been learning to live above the 
world :" and he then made some impressive observa- 
tions on the ground of his own hopes ; and having af- 
terwards heard that they had a favourable effect, he en- 
tered more fully into the subject with him on his next 
visit, and continued speaking for an hour, in such a 
convincing, affecting, and solemn strain, (and this at a 
time when he seemed incapable of uttering a single 
sentence,) that the physician, on retiring to the adjoin- 
ing room, threw himself on the sofa, in tears, exclaim- 
ing, " There is something superhuman about that man ; 
it is astonishing to see such a mind in a body so wasted ; 
such mental vigour in a poor frame dropping into the 
grave l" 

Let not then the cold sceptic (to maintain a precari- 



THE REV. C. WOLFE. 135 

ous theory on uncertain observations) seek to degrade 
his own nature, in the face of facts like this, by identi- 
fying the imperishable soul with its frail tenement. — 
There are moments, he may see, at which that divine 
and immaterial principle can throw off the pressure of 
its earthly encumbrance, even when it appears to slum- 
ber in a deadly torpor. When its own appropriate ex- 
citements are presented to it, it can " burst its cere- 
ments," and rise superior to the ruins amidst which it 
seems to be buried. 

This incident is abundantly sufficient to indicate the 
strength of principle and the ardour of feeling which 
may possess the soul at a time when, perhaps, it finds 
no utterance. His feelings indeed appeared too deep 
for superficial expressions. The state of mind towards 
which he seemed to aspire, was what the excellent 
Henry Martin preferred above all others, " a sweet and 
holy seriousness ;" and indeed he seemed to have at- 
tained it. His was a calm serenity, a profound thought- 
fulness, a retired communion with his God, which 
could not, probably, vent itself in verbal ebullitions ; 
but when an opportunity of doing good to the soul of a 
fellow-sinner presented itself, he shewed how strongly 
he felt the Gospel to be " the power of salvation to his 
own soul," by his zeal to impart it to another. 

It is important thus to see that true religion consists 
not so much in the constant fervour of the feelings, as 
in a fixedness of principle, in the intelligent, determin- 
ate choice of the will ; that the one may fluctuate while 
the other remains steadfast and immovable. 

From the time that Mr. W. came to Cove he seemed 
scarcely to relish any subject of conversation but that 
which bore upon what is, in truth, at all times " the 
one thing needful." 

His Bible was his chief companion ; he seemed also 
deeply interested in Worthington's treatise on " Self- 
resignaton ;" and occasionally read with satisfaction 
l( Omicron's Letters, by the Rev. J. Newton." 

Upon the subject of religion he was always peculiar- 



136 



REMAINS OF 



ly indisposed to controversy. He delighted to seize 
the great principles, to embrace the vital truths ; and 
read with pleasure any author in whose writings he 
could find them : he valued as brethren all who main- 
tained them, and diligently sought to co-operate with 
them " in their works and labours of love." His own 
views seemed not to have undergone any change from 
the time of his ordination ; but they became more and 
more vivid, and, of course, more influential upon his 
principles and affections. 

During the last few days of his life, when his suffer- 
ings became more distressing, his constant expression 
was, " This light affliction, this light affliction !" and 
when the awful crisis drew near, he still maintained the 
same sweet spirit of resignation. Even then he shew- 
ed an instance of that thoughtful benevolence, that 
amiable tenderness of feeling, which formed a striking 
trait in his character : — he expressed much anxiety 
about the accommodation of an attendant who was 
sleeping in an adjoining room ; and gave even minute 
directions respecting it. 

On going to bed he felt very drowsy ; and soon after, 
the stupor of death began to creep over him. He be- 
gan to pray for all his dearest friends individually; but 
his voice faltering, he could only say — " God bless them 
all ! The peace of God and of Jesus Christ overshad- 
ow them, dwell in them, reign in them !" " My 
peace," said he, addressing his sister, ("the peace I 
now feel) be with you !" — " Thou, O God, wilt keep 
him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee." — 
His speech again began to fail, and he fell into a slum- 
ber ; but whenever his senses were recalled he return- 
ed to prayer. He repeated part of the Lord's prayer, 
but was unable to proceed ; and at last, with a compo- 
sure scarcely credible at such a moment, he whispered 
to the dear relative who hung over his death-bed, 
" Close this eye, the other is closed already ; and now 
farewell !" Then, having again uttered part of the 



THE REV. C WOLFE. 



137 



Lord's prayer, he fell asleep. " He is not dead, but 
sleepeth." 



To this imperfect record I cannot forbear annexing 
the following discriminative sketch of the mental and 
moral endowments of its interesting subject. It is from 
the eloquent pen of the Rev. Dr. Miller, late fellow of 
Trinity College, Dublin, author of "Lectures on the 
Philosophy of Modern History." It formed the con- 
clusion of a letter to the editor of a London paper, in 
which he fully establishes the claim of the true author 
to the disputed Ode on Sir John Moore. 

" The poetical talent (continues the learned writer) 
which could produce such an ode was, however, but a 
minor qualification in the character of this young man ; 
for he combined eloquence of the first order with the 
zeal of an apostle. During the short time in which he 
held a curacy in the diocese of Armagh, he so wholly 
devoted himself to the discharge of his duties in a very 
populous parish, that he exhausted his strength by ex- 
ertions disproportioned to his constitution, and was cut 
off by disease in what should have been the bloom of 
youth. This zeal, which was too powerful for his bod- 
ily frame, was yet controlled by a vigorous and manly 
intellect, which all the ardour of religion and poetry 
could never urge to enthusiasm. His opinions were as 
sober as if they were merely speculative ; his fancy 
was as vivid as if he never reasoned ; his conduct as 
zealous as if he thought only of his practical duties ; 
every thing in him held its proper place except a due 
consideration of himself, and to his neglect of this he 
became an early victim." 

12* 



SERMONS. 



INTRODUCTION. 



It seems proper to introduce these Sermons with a few 
prefatory observations. — It should be borne in recollection, 
that none of them were designed by their author for publica- 
tion. They were all, with a single exception, composed for a 
plain but intelligent country congregation ; and some of them 
were afterwards preached, with slight alterations, in Dublin. 

It appears, from the great variety of short hints preserved 
with each sermon, that the writer's mind had been teeming 
with thoughts which he had not time or space to introduce. — 
Some of the topics were probably rejected as not suited to his 
flock ; but a few leading words were briefly and confusedly 
thrown together : some sparkles of thought were thus kept 
alive, which might have been sufficient to rekindle whole 
trains of reflections and forms of address, adapted to future oc- 
casions. 

The reader will not, of course, expect to meet in these ser- 
mons any thing like trains of abstract or metaphysical rea- 
soning, or learned elucidations of Scripture. Such would 
have been altogether misplaced, in discourses addressed to the 
middle and lower classes of society ; and, indeed, it may be 
said that there are few congregations to which such a mode of 
preaching is adapted ; none, perhaps, before whom it should 
not be sparingly employed. The character of the author's 
mind, and of his accomplishments as a scholar, was such as, in 
other circumstances, might have led him to occasional exer- 
cises ot this kind, in which, doubtless, he would have exhibit- 
ed that acuteness and subtilty as a reasoner, and that ingenui- 
ty as a commentator, which distinguished him in conversa- 
tional discussion, 



142 INTRODUCTION. 

Sermons which partake of such a character abound in our 
language. We are in no want of learned and argumentative 
discourses. There is a rich magazine of sound theological 
erudition in the sermons of our best divines ; enough, indeed, 
to form a complete body of divinity. 

There are also many useful volumes of a plain, instructive 
character, in which the great doctrines and duties of Chris- 
tianity are simply and faithfully expounded. But most of 
them are deficient in interest. They present little to excite 
the curiosity, to seize upon the imagination, or to penetrate 
the heart. They serve well enough to direct, but are insuffi- 
cient to impel. They are rather sound catechetical lectures, 
than awakening appeals ; formal statements, than affecting, 
heart-stirring exhortations. Such, I believe, are generally 
allowed to be the prevailing defects in our modern sermons. 

Those which are here submitted to the public, it is hoped, 
may appear at least as samples of that description most want- 
ed, and best fitted for general usefulness. They are, howev- 
er, to be regarded merely as specimens of the author's style of 
preaching. 

Their principal merit appears to be, that though originally 
composed for a plain congregation, they were cast in such a 
shape as to be easily adapted, by slight alterations, to the most 
cultivated minds. " This (says an able writer* on oratory) 
is a difficult task. Some dispositions indeed there are who 
fall into it naturally ; but usually it is the fruit of serious re- 
flection and long experience. It costs a man of quick parts 
and extensive knowledge much pain and self-denial to reject 
every thing curious, and fine, and acute, which his faculties 
and erudition offer to him ; and to confine himself within the 
limits of common sense. But, after all, the principal difficul- 
ty herein is not from nature, but our own fault, — from wrong 
passions, ambition, interest, or self-praise. Preach not for 

* Lectures concerning Oratory, 'by J. Lawson, D. D. Lecturer in 
Oratory and History, Trinity College, Dublin. Pp. 394, 395 (1 795.) 



INTRODUCTION. 



143 



preferment or fame, — but for God and virtue. If your genius 
admits of it, you will then be concise, nervous, and full. 1 ' 

It is this quality (thus justly commended) which seems to 
have chiefly distinguished our author as a preacher. This is 
no unsupported assertion. Many persons, as well as the edit- 
or, can bear testimony to the strong emotions which the same 
sermons, with little alterations, excited amongst the extreme 
classes of society — in the minds of the literate and illiterate — 
the religious and the worldly. 

A sermon read, is, indeed, different from a sermon spoken ; 
and it is possible that the effect of these sermons was much 
aided by a mode of delivery peculiarly suitable to their style 
and matter. Sometimes it was authoritative and abrupt ; 
sometimes slow and measured ; and at other times rapid — al- 
most hurried. Sometimes there was a blunt and homely 
plainness, and often a soothing tenderness of manner ; but all 
was natural and unlaboured ; more remarkable, perhaps, for 
energy and expression than for gracefulness, — for an earnest 
simplicity, than a studied elegance. 

It may be necessary for the editor to say a few words as to 
the task he has had to perform. Many of the manuscripts 
were in such a state as to require much labour to transcribe 
them for the press ; and a large portion of some of the ser- 
mons, towards the close of the volume, was written out in 
such evident haste, as to cause some inaccuracies which it 
was absolutely necessary to correct. This, however, has been 
sparingly done ; perhaps, some may think too sparingly. 

For such necessary corrections the editor hopes he need not 
apologise ; as the nature of all posthumous works, not design- 
ed for publication, usually demands them ; and as his intimate 
friendship with the author, and his acquaintance with all his 
opinions and feelings, must be a full security that the duty has 
been performed with rigid caution and fidelity. 

The present selection has been made chiefly with a refer- 
ence to the author's own probable estimate of his sermons. — 



144 INTRODUCTION. 

All which he preached in Dublin are included, as it may be 
naturally supposed they were among- the number which he 
had most thoroughly considered and prepared. A few others 
are added, which some, probably, may think not inferior. 

Under the circumstances in which they were composed, and 
in which they now appear before the public, it will be unne- 
cessary, it is hoped, to deprecate the scrutiny of literary or 
theological criticism. In hortatory appeals like these, it is 
unreasonable to expect all the precision of a formal essay. — 
There is a certain boldness and latitude of phrase to be allow- 
ed in such discourses : the form of expression cannot easily 
be compressed within the narrow limits, or tamed down into 
the meagre statements, of a scholastic system. In these ser- 
mons, however, it will be found that all the grand doctrines 
of the Gospel, which alone can give vitality and energy to re- 
ligious instruction, are prominently, faithfully, and practically 
inculcated. Happy will it be, if they are perused with a dis- 
position of mind in any degree correspondent with the feel- 
ings* by which they were dictated, or proportioned to the 

* These feelings may, in some degree, be illustrated by a few ex- 
tracts from his private reflections, which were never meant to meet 
any eye but his own : they were roughly entered upon a few scattered 

{•apers, merely as hints for his own direction. They shew, in a strong 
ight, the genuine workings of his heart, — the kind of mental and 
spiritual exercise in which he engaged in the preparation of his ser- 
mons, — and the anxiety he felt about the style and topics most likely 
to make practical impressions upon the consciences of his hearers. 

Take a case in which God acts or speaks affectionately, — almost al- 
ways one on the spiritual nature of sin, — on self-deceit— self-know- 
ledge. 

Let it keep me humble to think how I myself have sinned in the 
face of light, and against the motives I have to withhold me ; against 
the knowledge of God's wrath ; against it and his redeeming love ; 
against my own preaching ; against the especial need of a minister, 
upon whose spiritual state depends, in a great degree, the state of hia 
flock. 

Preach a sermon in which every false sentiment is supposed uttered 
on the death-bed ; a sermon in which we suppose the sensations of a 
■inner looking back upon those whom he may have misled, or neglect- 
ed to instruct, — a father upon his children, &c. — a pastor upon his 
flock ; when each shall say, " I pray thee send some one unto my fa- 
ther's house." — Give also the retrospect from Heaven upon those 
whom, through the grace of God, we may have assisted. 



INTRODUCTION, 



145 



momentous object which their pious author held steadily in 
view. If his glorified spirit be now permitted to share in the 
joy which angels feel " over one sinner that repenteth," there 
is not one of all the heavenly host which encircles the throne 
of God, that would enjoy a holier delight than he in witnessing 
the restoration of an immortal soul to its Father and its God : 
—and surely it would, if possible, enhance such joy, if he 
could be assured that, even in a single instance, this humble 
record of his words was conducive to effect that object which 
was nearest to his heart when they passed through his living 
lips ; and that thus, " though absent from us in the body," he 
was still instrumental in the blessed work of " converting a 
sinner from the error of his way, and saving a soul alive." 

That He who is the Author of every good and perfect gift, 
may accompany them with the healthful and saving influence 
of his grace to the heart of every reader, is the fervent pray- 
er of 

THE EDITOR. 

Bring in familiar topics. — Begin naturally and easily, but so as to 
excite curiosity — with an incident or anecdote. Begin in an original 
and striking, but sedate manner. Before writing, read poetry and ora- 
tory. " Look constantly to the Bible. Every thing you read, read 
with a view to this." 
* Give full weight to objections — with all fondness of human frailty. 
Seize late, almost present occurrences. Imagine that you are arguing 
with the most profligate, ambitious, and talented opponent. 

Let my object be to improve myself first. — Enter into the feelings 
of your congregation, — into their failings. Throw them upon arguing 
against themselves : — advise them affectionately. 

- ■ 



13 



SERMON I. 



ECCLESIASTES, xii. 1. 

Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth. 

We all know that we shall have to remember oar 
Creator at one time or another. We cannot but know 
that he has many ways of inviting us to remember him 
— " the sun that he makes to rise upon the evil and the 
good — the rain that he sends down upon the just and 
the unjust — the fruitful seasons, by which he fills our 
hearts with food and gladness" — the weekly returns of 
his holy Sabbath — 'the ministry of the Gospel of salva- 
tion — and the table which he spreads before us, which 
he has instituted as a peculiar memorial of himself, and 
at which he invites us to eat of the bread of life, and to 
drink from the fountain of living water. 

And we cannot but know that he has also the means 
of making himself remembered, and that he will not 
always allow himself to be forgotten, — but that he has 
certain agents at his disposal, by which, when he pleas- 
es, he can command our attention, — the sword — the 
famine — the pestilence — the death-bed — the last trump- 
et — " the worm that dieth not, and the fire that is not 
quenched." 

Such a Being cannot be remembered too often, or 
too soon. There is no one here that will venture to 
say, that there ever existed a man from the foundation 
of the world who remembered him too much, or began 
to fix his thoughts upon him too early. We need 
scarcely go farther, then, to discover what is to become 



148 



SERMON I. 



of those who habitually forget him ; who only think of 
him when he is started into their minds by something 
violent or accidental, and who say, " It is yet time 
enough to remember my Creator." Why they might 
as well say when death comes, it is yet time enough to 
die. It is hard to conceive the fate of these men, if 
they are cut off in this state of forgetfulness, to be any 
thing but evil and misery ; in fact, it would put our in- 
vention to no easy trial, to imagine what good thing 
they would be capable of enjoying in the other world. 
Look into their own breasts ; — they hope for nothing, 
they promise themselves nothing ; for they cannot think 
of these things when they forget Him who is the Au- 
thor and Giver of these things. If then there were no 
other reason for remembering our Creator in the days of 
our youth, than that we may never have an old age 
vouchsafed to us, in which we may recall him to our 
thoughts ; that between us and that old age there may 
be a great gulf fixed that we shall never pass ; if this 
were the only reason, should it not be enough .? Nay, 
the sin of thus trifling with him and our own immortal 
souls, by deferring their consideration to a future oppor- 
tunity, may be the very means of provoking him to 
withhold that opportunity for ever. 

But there is another reason for remembering our 
Creator in the days of our youth. The days of our 
youth are the days of our blessings. It would be hard 
to find, throughout the whole range of creation, a more 
glorious and interesting object, than youth just entering 
into active life, just rejoicing as a giant to run his 
course. Set him alongside of the noblest animal of 
any other species ; compare him with the old and de- 
caying members of his own — and what a difference ! 
In those days we enter into life with a shower of God's 
blessings upon our heads ; we come adorned with all 
the choicest gifts of the Almighty ; with strength of 
body, with activity of limb, with health and vigour of 
constitution, with every thing to fit us both for labour 
and for enjoyment ; if not endowed with a sufficiency, 



SERMON I. 



149 



endowed with what is better, the power of obtaining it 
for ourselves by an honest and manly industry ; with 
-senses keen and observing; with spirits high, lively, 
and untameable, that shake off care and sorrow when- 
ever they attempt to fasten upon our mind, and that en- 
able us to make pleasure for ourselves, where we do not 
Jind it, and to draw enjoyment and gratification from 
things in which they see nothing but pain, vexation., 
and disappointment. 

But, above all, in the days of our youth, the mind 
and the memory, with which we have been endowed by 
the Almighty, are then all fresh, alive, and vigorous. — 
Alas ! we seldom think what an astonishing gift is that 
understanding which we enjoy — the bright light that 
God has kindled within us — until our old age comes, 
when we find that that understanding is wearing away, 
and that light becoming dim. Then shall we feel bit- 
terly, most bitterly, what it is to have enjoyed, in the 
days of our youth, that privilege which seems to be 
withheld from all the animals by whom we are surround- 
ed, — even the privilege of knowing that there is a God ; 
the privilege even of barely thinking upon such a Be- 
ing ; but more than that, the privilege of studying and 
understanding the astonishing variety of his works, of 
observing the ways of his providence, of admiring his 
power, his wisdom, and his goodness ; the power of ac- 
quiring knowledge of a thousand different kinds, and 
the power of laying it up in our memory, and using it 
when we please : and this in the days of our youth, 
when the mind is all on fire, brisk, clear, and powerful, 
and when we actually seem to take knowledge by force, 
and when the memory is large and spacious, so as to ad- 
mit and contain the good things that we learn ; and 
where the place that should be filled by knowledge has 
not yet been preoccupied by crimes, by sorrows, and 
anxieties. 

In the days of our youth, too, our hearts are warm- 
est, and our feelings and .our attachments are strongest 
and most disinterested ; we Tiave not yet learnt the bit* 

13* 



150 



SERMON I. 



ter lessons that are acquired by a mixture with the 
world, where we often lose our best and kindest affec- 
tions, and are taught in return selfishness, avarice, sus- 
picion, and deceit. Our hopes and our friendships 
have not yet been checked by disappointment, nor our 
kindness and generosity by ingratitude. Thus, dres- 
sed out in all the riches of his Creator's goodness, with 
the marks of God's hand yet fresh upon him — with 
health, with strength, with mind, with memory, with 
warmth and liberality of heart — youth comes forward 
into life, covered over and hung round with memorials 
of his Creator. Is it necessarv to ask, whether this 
man should remember his Creator ? Supposing that 
there was no stronger motive than gratitude for all these 
blessings, would it be a hard thing to ask, that the Lord 
of health, and strength, and mind, and memory, should 
have a place in the memory that he has himself be- 
stowed 1 — and yet if our recollection of our Creator 
depended only upon our gratitude, is there one heart on 
the earth that would rise, of its own accord, to the 
throne of goodness, to offer its voluntary incense of 
praise and thanksgiving for all the unnumbered bene- 
fits that have been showered upon our heads 1 It is 
well that our recollection of our Creator depends upon 
a more severe and a more powerful motive ; for we can- 
not imagine that God has lavished upon us all this pro- 
fusion of his treasures, without intending that they 
should be used in a particular way. Would you believe 
any one that told you, that God, who gives the meanest 
blessing to the meanest animal for some certain use, 
can have glorified you with such powers and riches of 
body and of mind, and that he has yet left the manage- 
ment to your own humour and caprice ? Really and 
truly, do you believe that you have been supplied with 
all these magnificent gifts for so many toys to trifle with, 
and not so many weapons that you are to wield in the 
service of the God who gave them 1 It is impossible. 
We cannot but know and feel in our hearts, that they 
were given for great purposes, and that they are not at 



SERMON I. 



151 



our disposal ; that God will require the fruits of his 
own gifts ; that if we use them as " instruments of un- 
righteousness unto sin, and not as instruments of right- 
eousness unto God" — " the wages of those things is 
death;" that if we prostitute the health and the 
strength that he has given us, to drunkenness and de- 
bauchery, and the mind that he has given us, to pride, 
revenge, covetousness, or impurity ; if we do not use 
them for the purpose both of understanding his will and 
obeying it ; of worshipping him in spirit and in truth ; 
of ff letting our light so shine before men, that they may 
see our good works, and glorify our Father which is in 
heaven ;" we shall have turned all these blessings to 
our ruin. At our peril, then, are we bound to remem- 
ber our Creator, in order that we may consult his will 
and obey his commands, so as to be able to render an 
account of the talents with which we have been in- 
trusted. And accordingly, about two verses before this 
passage, as if to prepare us for the precept, " Remem- 
ber thy Creator in the days of thy youth," there come 
these solemn and powerful words — " Rejoice, O young 
man, in thy youth, and let thy heart cheer thee in the 
days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of thine heart, 
and in the sight of thine eyes : but know thou, that for 
all these things God will bring thee into judgment." 

We have now considered the days of our youth as 
the days of our blessings, but there remains another 
consideration still more awakening ; for the days of 
our youth are also the days of our dangers. If a young 
man, at his first outset into life, were to have all the 
temptations that he was afterwards to undergo suddenly 
presented before his view ; if all the unseen enemies of 
his soul, his peace, and his innocence, were all, at once t 
to become visible ; if all his future scenes of blasphe^ 
my, riot, and intemperance, were, by one flash of light- 
ning, disclosed to his contemplation, — I suppose that 
nothing less than a look into the next world, if it were 
possible, could produce a more terrible shock upon his 
feelings ; perhaps it would be too much for him to see 



152 SERMON I. 

at once the thousand ways in which the world, the flesh, 
and the devil would lay siege to his soul — would solicit 
his passions — would undermine his resolutions — the 
thousand artifices by which they would endeavour to 
render vice more and more familiar to his taste, and in- 
sinuate its poison into his very constitution. Now what 
safeguard can he take, entering, as he does, among 
such a host of enemies — enemies, too, that go slowly to 
work, so that a man scarcely perceives that he is losing 
ground and giving way 1 He must take some fixed 
and unchangeable principle of conduct, or he is ruined ; 
there must be something solid and immovable, at which 
his mind may ride at anchor, — something that will not 
change, or shift, or flatter, but will always tell him the 
stern — the pure — the terrifying truth. 

Now what is the principle from which we naturally 
act in the days of our youth 1 Either from none at all, 
or we are governed by custom, by example, by fashion, 
and by the opinion of those into whose company we are 
generally thrown. Would it not be enough to observe, 
without going a step farther, that this is nothing less 
than making mankind our God — than making our com- 
pany our God 1 For, recollect, that whatever you take 
as your chief rule in life, and the leading governor and 
director of your conduct, that is your God ; it is to you 
what God should be — it is in God's place — it is this you 
remember when you should remember your Creator ; 
in this you live, and upon this you must depend when 
you die. 

But let us examine this rule — this God that we take 
unto ourselves, to direct us through the dangers of our 
youth — and what is it 1 The opinion of that very 
world, and of those very companions who are the means 
of seducing us from our duty ; the very world that sup- 
plies aH these temptations, that gives way to them, that 
riots and indulges in them, is that from which we take 
our laws and principles ; composed of men just as 
willing lo yield to temptation as ourselves, and just as 
Anxious to discover the same excuses. And thus, those 



SERMON I. 



153 



whose principles, example, and applause, are to us in- 
stead of God, are the companions of our carousals, of 
our revellings, of our debauches, and of our impurities, 
and who give the name of virtue and vice to whatever 
they please, without consulting Him who is the fountain 
of all virtue, and the burning enemy of all vice. 

But this is not all, nor perhaps the worst. The opin- 
ions of the world, as to virtue and vice, are not only 
ruinously false, but they are as changeable as they are 
false. What, in one age of the world, would have 
branded a man with infamy as long as he breathed, be- 
comes not only pardonable, but reputable in another. — 
The customs of the world, and the fashionable crimes 
of society, are shifting from age to age. For one in- 
stance out of a hundred : — some time ago there existed 
a nation where theft was honoured, as a proof of skill 
and dexterity ; while, in that very same nation, drunk- 
enness and immodesty — intemperance of any kind — 
would have ruined a man's reputation for ever. Now 
look at the change ! In our days, the one is stigmati- 
sed with punishment and dishonour, while men often 
boast of their achievements in the other. How is a 
man to be guided by this childish and despicable world, 
that has not yet learnt, in six thousand years, to guide 
and regulate itself 1 — that calls a thing virtue at one 
time, and vice at another ; that calls evil good, and 
good evil ; that puts bitter for sweet, and sweet for bit- 
ter 1 Let him put it aside from him with contempt, 
and let him " remember his Creator. 5 ' He will not 
shift and change with times and seasons. The fashions 
and opinions of the world may turn round and round 
with the world itself; but the law of God stands un- 
changed and unchangeable as the God that endureth 
for ever and ever : they have perished, and shall per- 
ish ; but he hath remained and shall still remain : the 
fashions and opinions of the world shall all " wax old 
as doth a garment, and he shall fold them up, and they 
shall be changed ; but he is the same, and his years 
shall not fail." Why, one thought upon God, in the 



154 



SERMON I. 



midst of dissipation and profligacy, of oaths and drunk- 
enness, of indecencies of language and of conduct, of 
revenge, animosity, and blood, (nay, in the midst of 
the less clamorous and more refined criminalities which 
are sanctioned by society,) I say, one thought upon 
God would produce little less than a kind of revelation ; 
it would carry along with it such holiness, such purity, 
such love, that he must distinguish virtue from vice 
through the flimsy and miserable disguise in which they 
have been enveloped by mankind; the path of duty 
would be open before him, and guilt would come home 
to his breast, though the laugh and the scorn of socie- 
ty were echoing around. 

But the law of God is not left to our own capricious 
recollections ; — it is entered upon record — it has been 
rained down upon us from heaven — it has been practi- 
sed, fulfilled, and embodied in the Son of God, and 
sanctified by the blood of the Legislator. Here must 
the young man remember his Creator, while the world, 
the flesh, and the devil, are crowding around to devour 
him. With this law in his hand, and the Son of God 
by his side, let him go through the furnace, or he is 
lost. 

But suppose that all this has been neglected, and 
that you, notwithstanding, have been permitted, by the 
mercies of the God you have forgotten, to arrive at the 
borders of an unholy old age ; — how will you then set 
about remembering your Creator — reserving for the 
dregs of sickness and infirmity, the work of youth in 
all its vigour — offering rude and cruel violence to lan- 
guid nature, as she is retiring to her repose — returning 
indeed to a second childhood, and beginning life anew, 
just as you are dropping into the grave — obliged to un- 
do all that you have -done — to turn out the whole tribe 
of loathsome ideas that have lain festering in your mind, 
and to purify a diseased and corrupted memory from all 
the sordid thoughts and recollections that have filled the 
place which should have been occupied by your Crea- 
tor ? And then, too, when you shall come to teach 



SERMON 1. 155 

this precept to your children, instead of pronouncing it 
with all the dignity of a father — of one who is to them 
in the place of God upon earth, you will hang your 
head and drop your grey hairs in shame before the son 
that should honour and respect you ; you will blush to 
look your child in the face, when you read him a lesson 
that you never practised ; and your lips will quiver, and 
your tongue will falter, when you say to him, " Re- 
member your Creator in the days of your youth." And 
yet, are we to say that there is no hope for such a man ? 
God forbid. If there were no hope for those who have 
forgotten their Creator, which of us could lift his eyes 
to heaven 1 You, and all the world, and he who warns 
you of its consequences, every day and every hour, have 
forgotten their Creator. We have used the awful bles- 
sings that he has bestowed upon us, for our sport and 
amusement, and forgotten from whom they come ; and 
we have rushed into the dangers and temptations of 
life, with nothing to guide us but the impulses of our 
own guilty nature, or the opinion of a world that has 
drawn its principles from its practice, instead of form' 
ing its practice vpon its principles. Those who feel 
this in the depth of their hearts, and the awful state to 
which it has brought them, will know how to value the 
great and glorious atonement that has been made for 
them upon the cross. It will be music to their ears to 
be told, that to those who have forgotten their Creator, 
it is yet said, Remember your Redeemer, and live. — 
Open wide your memory and your heart to this blessed 
Redeemer, and let the King of Glory come in. Just 
think, — whom will you remember instead of him 1 — 
Who is there that shall fill his place, and sit upon the 
throne of your memory, that will return you faithfully 
love for love — thought for thought ? Will the object 
that is dearest to you upon earth ? The heart of that 
being may be now cold and faithless ; that heart will 
certainly be one day cold and mouldering in the grave, 
and all the profusion of memory that you lavish upon 
that barren spot, will never make one fresh though^ or 



156 



SERMON I. 



one genial recollection spring from the ashes that you 
loved, to reward your fond and hopeless prodigality. — 
But there is not one pure thought, one holy recollection 
that struggles to rise to that gracious Being, that shall 
be allowed to fall to the ground, but shall be kindly re- 
ceived, and richly repaid; and he will return it from 
on high with a rain of blessings upon your head. Go, 
and remember Him who thought of you before you 
had the power of thinking either of him or of yourself, 
—making you young and lusty as an eagle, and only 
" a little lower than the angels, — crowning you with 
majesty and honour ;" — who remembered you when 
you had forgotten him and yourself, and all that became 
a creature whom his Creator had marked out for im- 
mortality ; — who remembered you when he bowed his 
head upon the cross ; and who is ready to recognise 
you before his Father and the holy angels — even before 
the Creator whom you had forgotten. Go, and think 
of him — for at this instant he is thinking of every one 
of you ! 



SERMON II. 



Hebrews, xi. 1. 

Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence 
of things not seen. 

We all profess a firm belief in the truths which God 
has been pleased to declare. Now the Scriptures con- 
tain certain threats and certain promises ; — threats of 
vengeance and punishment to every soul that sinneth ; 
promises of mercy and immortality to all that fly to the 
refuge appointed in a Redeemer ; and therefore, when 
we declare that we believe in God's word, we at the 
same time profess a firm faith in the reality of these 
threats and these promises, and in the certainty that, 
sooner or later, they will be carried into execution. 

And perhaps nothing could shock or affront us more, 
than that any man should venture to hint a suspicion of 
the soundness of our faith, or insinuate that we doubt- 
ed the truth of these things. However, there are so 
many men of all kinds, of all characters, of all descrip- 
tions, who declare that they have this faith ; men who 
perhaps never spent one serious and solemn hour, in the 
course of their lives, in the consideration of these things, 
which they profess to believe ; men who live just as 
they would if they never believed them, — that there is 
some reason to fear that some fatal mistake exists 
among mankind upon this point ; and we shall do well 
to look to ourselves, and examine whether all is as safe 
as we could wish, and whether we do really and truly 
believe the things that the word of God contains. 

14 



158 SERMON II. 

Now the word of God itself supplies us with an ex- 
cellent method of considering this subject ; and it is 
the more satisfactory, because it is one which our own 
common sense seems to acknowledge at once ; " Faith 
is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of 
things not seen." It is to us instead of sight, it is as 
if we had seen the things that we believe, and is there- 
fore to produce the same effect. This is a principle to 
which our common sense subscribes ; for if we were 
to assure any man that a certain fact existed, and re- 
quire him to act as he certainly would if he had seen it 
himself, what reason could he give for refusing 1 None, 
but that he doubted it, that he was not sure of its ex- 
istence. 

Thus, then, if we believe those things sincerely, from 
our heart and soul — if we are not dissembling with God 
and deceiving ourselves, our belief of these things must 
be as if we had seen them ; our belief of the threats 
and the promises of God must be as if we witnessed 
them actually fulfilled. 

Our inquiry, then, naturally is, what would be the 
case if we really beheld them'? Suppose that we were 
now suddenly conveyed into the world of spirits, and it 
was given unto you to see the strange doings of futuri- 
ty ; suppose the curtain withdrawn that conceals them 
from view, when you should behold a "great white 
throne, and Him who sat upon it, from whose face the 
earth and the heaven fled aw r ay, and there was no place 
found for them ;" thousand thousands ministering unto 
him ; the judgment set, and the books opened ; when 
you should hear the trumpet sound, and in a moment, 
in the twinkling of an eye, the dead, small and great, 
stand before God, to be judged out of those things that 
are written in the book : (for all this is actually in the 
word of God ; of all this, faith is the substance and the 
evidence ;) and then, when you should find that " with- 
out holiness no man could see the Lord," that none but 
the " pure in heart should see God," and that it was 
the secrets of men's hearts that God judged in that 



SERMON II. 



159 



day, and that for every idle word they must give ac- 
count, and that every mouth was stopped, and naturally 
" all the world was guilty before God ;" and that " by 
the deeds of the law no flesh was justified in his sight ;" 
(for all this is actually in the word of God, and of all 
this, faith is the substance and the evidence ;) and then, 
when you should find, that " without shedding of blood 
there is no remission," and that there was but one 
Mediator between God and man ; when you should per- 
ceive that there was then " one name," and but " one 
name under heaven by which men must be saved," 
and it was inquired, whether " every one that named 
that name had departed from iniquity ;" and that, in 
consequence, he "separated one from the other, as 
a shepherd divideth the sheep from the goats ;" that on 
the left were those who walked after the flesh, and those 
who were guilty of " adultery, fornication, uncleanness, 
lasciviousness, hatred, variance, emulation, wrath, strife, 
sedition, heresies, envyings, murder, drunkenness, re- 
velling, and such like ;" and that on the right were those 
** who walked after the Spirit," and who " brought 
forth love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, good- 
ness, faith, meekness, temperance ;" and when you 
should hear him say to those on his left, " Depart, ye 
cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and 
his angels; and to those on his right, " Come, ye bles- 
sed children of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepar- 
ed for you from the foundation of the world :" (for all 
these things are actually in the word of God, and of 
all this, faith is the substance and the evidence ;) and 
then, when this scene was closed, if you were to follow 
those two different classes of men to the abode that wai 
to be theirs to all eternity, — what would be your sensa- 
tions? When first you should visit the mansions of ever- 
lasting misery, and should behold " indignation and 
wrath, tribulation and anguish, upon the souls of those 
who had done evil ;" when, through the regions of out- 
er darkness, you should hear " weeping and gnashing of 
teeth," and should discern through the gloom the writh- 



!60 SERMON II. 

ings of the worm that dieth not, and the waving of the 
flame that shall never be quenched : and when, in the 
second place, you should enter the heavenly Jerusalem, 
and should be saluted at the first step with the sweet 
melody of angels over " sinners that had repented, 3 ' 
and should see the Lord God wiping away all tears from 
their eyes ; where there was no more death, neither 
sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain 
for ever ; where they shall hunger no more, neither 
thirst any more ; where the city hath no need of sun or 
moon to shine in it ; for the glory of God lightens it, 
and the Lamb is the light thereof; when you should 
see there the pure river of the water of life, " and in 
the midst of the street of that city, the tree of life, and 
the Lamb that is in the midst of the throne feeding 
them, and leading them unto fountains of water ;" and 
should hear them sing a new song before the throne, 
which no man could learn, save those that are redeem- 
ed from the earth ; (for all this is actually in the word 
of God, and of all this, faith is the substance and the 
evidence ;) — now, after having thus looked into futuri- 
ty, and taken a view of the objects of your faith, sup- 
pose you again alight upon earth, and return to the 
company of human beings, and the pursuits of your 
ordinary occupation, — what a changed man would you 
be ! what a new aspect would the earth wear, and all 
the objects by which you are surrounded ! what new 
conceptions would you form of happiness and misery ! 
what new desires, nay, what new passions would you 
find, as it were, introduced into your heart ! what a 
stranger would you find yourself in the midst of those 
things among which you were perfectly at home ! " How 
is the gold become dim, how is the most fine gold 
changed !" " How are the riches corrupted, and the 
garments moth-eaten !" How poor is wealth, and how 
mean are honours !. For when you looked on them, 
then would occur to you the riches you had gazed on 
in the heavenly Jerusalem — the glories by which it was 
illuminated. 



SERMON II. 



161 



With what horror would you then look on the drunk- 
en revel and the wanton debauch; for the moment they 
presented themselves before you, the groans would sound 
in your ears that you had heard from the bottomless pit. 
When you heard the laugh of wild intemperance and 
frantic intoxication, it would be drowned in the shrieks 
of the damned, that would be still echoing about you; 
and if you heard a fellow-creature sin, whether against 
yourself or not, no matter, (you have just seen what 
will make you think very lightly of all earthly pains 
and injuries,) what would be uppermost in your minds? 
Any little petty rancour, any little mean revenge, or 
any cold and unheeding indifference 1 No : bat you 
would think of the terrible portion which that man was 
earning for himself in " the lake that burns with ever- 
lasting brimstone," and you would fly to " snatch him 
as a brand from the burning;" you would look upon all 
around you with a most anxious and affectionate inter- 
est, recollecting that they were all heirs of the happi- 
ness or misery which you had just been witnessing in 
the other world ; you would be to them a prophet, an 
evangelist, an apostle, — " the voice of one crying in the 
wilderness;" you would summon all your powers to 
teach them the things that belong unto their peace, to 
unlock to them heaven and hell; to describe the hor- 
rors you had beheld in the one, and the glories you had 
seen in the other. 

And then with what new eyes would you look upon 
sin ! How many things would then appear awful sins, 
which you before overlooked and undervalued, when 
you recollected that " for every idle word that a man 
spoke, God brought him into judgment ;" — when you 
recollected that it was the secrets of men's hearts that 
you saw God judging — that you saw him untwisting a 
man's very heart-strings, and finding what was enclosed 
within; " for the word of God is quick and powerful, 
and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to 
the dividing asunder the joints and marrow, the soul 

14* 



162 SERMON II. 

and spirit, and is a discerner of the thoughts and in- 
tents of the heart!" 

Little would you then think of giving gentle names 
to sins which may appear light and pardonable in your 
own eyes, when you recollected how they stained and 
corrupted the soul in the eyes of Him " who is of pur- 
er eyes, than to behold iniquity." 

How then would your conversation become purified, 
refined, and exalted : and if you found any corrupt 
communication proceeding out of your mouth, how 
would you check it like poison, when you would recol- 
lect the songs of blessed spirits that you had heard 
above ! and you would think, — Can I hope with such 
lips as these to join the ranks of those whom I heard 
crying, " Holy, holy, holy V And then how would the 
very innocent pleasures of life sink in your estimation, 
when you thought of those pleasures you had seen at 
the right hand of God. How would you fear lest they 
should become uppermost in your heart, and engage 
your best and choicest affections, and thus you should 
be tempted to choose your portion upon earth, and for- 
feit your treasure which is in heaven : " for where your 
treasure is, there will your heart be also!" Not "the 
harp or the viol, tabret or the pipe, or the wine," would 
make you " forget the work of the Lord, or the opera- 
tion of his hands ;" M but your right hand would forget 
her cunning, yea, your tongue would cleave to the roof 
of your mouth, ere you preferred not Jerusalem in your 
mirth." You would feel yourself a stranger and a pil- 
grim on the earth; a citizen of a far distant country, 
an exile from your native land ; and you would often 
steal from the company of the foreigner, to think of the 
beauties of your home, — its love and delightful inhabit- 
ants, — to cast a longing, lingering look towards its 
shores, and meditate sweetly upon your return. Such 
would you be, if you had actually seen those things of 
which your faith is the substance and the evidence ; 
and therefore such must you be, if you really believe 
these truths, 



SERMON II. 163 

And now let each man compare what he is with what 
we have just found he would be if he had seen what he 
professes to believe. And are you like it 1 Is there any 
striking resemblance? No doubt the impressions would 
be much more lively and powerful if they had been 
actually seen. It is scarcely to be expected that we 
should attain so great a degree of spiritual excellence, 
as if we had seen them face to face ; but the simple 
question that every man of plain common sense has to 
ask himself, is this — Whether there is to be so very 
great a difference between a man who had seen these 
things, and a man who from his heart and soul believed 
these things to be true, and that one day or other he 
shall see these things? Is your life (I will not say equal 
to, but is it) like that which we have been just descri- 
bing 1 Does it fall short of it in degree, not in kind ? or 
(what is the true and most important question) is it con- 
tinually approaching it 1 Is it more and more like it, 
though you may not hope to attain it on this side of the 
grave 1 Remember, there were two diiferent men that 
applied to our Saviour for relief; they were both fathers, 
and came to ask it for their children. As soon as 
Christ had said to one of them, " Thy son liveth," he 
went his way, believing the word that Jesus spake, and 
accordingly he found his son fully restored ; — now this 
man's faith, in this instance, was the substance of what 
he hoped for, the perfect evidence of what he had not 
seen. But when Christ asked the other father, " Be- 
lievest thou that I am able to do this thing?" the father 
answered, with tears in his eyes, "Lord, I believe, 
help thou mine unbelief!" He felt that his faith was not 
as it should be, that it was not the evidence of what 
he did not see; but he felt humbled under the sense of 
his weakness, eager to have it remedied and removed, 
— and he prayed with all his heart that his faith might 
be confirmed and invigorated. And was he disappoint- 
ed ? The good and benevolent Being who never yet re- 
jected the prayer of humble earnestness, said unto him, 
even as unto the other, " Thy son liveth." 



164 SERMON II. 

But there is an actual difference between the com- 
mon faith of a man of the world and of a real and 
genuine Christian. The one is the business of a mo- 
ment; it begins and ends with a repetition of his creed, 
— it is despatched in the service of the day. But with 
the other it is a living principle, always growing and 
increasing ; always approaching the state of one who 
had actually seen what he believes, and of controlling, 
directing, and animating his whole conduct. He will 
always have those future things, which God has assured 
him he shall one day behold, so fully before him, as to 
have all the effect of reality upon his life and conversa- 
tion. Just conceive what would be your manner of 
speaking and acting, if on every Sabbath, instead of 
coming to hear of these truths, you had them actually 
disclosed to your contemplation ; would you spend the 
ensuing week as you now intend to spend it 1 And yet 
be assured you do not virtually believe these truths, un- 
less your faith in some degree performs the office of your 
sight, and discloses heaven and hell before you. 

But do not mistake ; as your faith improves and ad- 
vances it will lose more of the threats and the terrors 
of religion, and draw closer and closer to its hopes, its 
promises, its pleasures and enjoyments ; for observe, 
faith is not described to be the substance of things fear- 
ed, but the "substance of things hoped for." For af- 
ter the soul of a sinner has been thoroughly awakened 
both to its guilt and its danger, and has fled from God's 
justice to the love of a Redeemer, it soon forgets the 
punishment from which it is escaping, in the glories to 
which it is approaching ; and though faith represents 
before us both heaven and hell, yet as the spirit advan- 
ces in its path of duty, and rises upwards towards its 
God, the mansions of misery are left farther and farther 
beneath ; the flames grow fainter, and the groans die 
away ; while, at the same time, the gates of heaven are 
more clearly discerned, and the voices of the redeemed 
more distinctly heard. 

Thus fear gives way to hope ; and the Christian who 



SERMON II. 165 

has taken up his cross, and followed his Redeemer, has 
seldom to look behind at the wrath that he is escaping, 
but onward and upward, at the Saviour who is his hope 
and his conductor. This is the grand practical princi- 
ple of the Gospel, the moving-spring of the Christian's 
duty, and the rich fountain of his obedience ; that faith 
which displays his Redeemer as actually present, and 
the glorious blessings which he has purchased, full in 
view. This is no fable, no nice fanciful speculation ; 
it is a principle that has been acted upon since the foun- 
dation of the world. 

The chapter before us contains a splendid catalogue 
of those that were moved, inspired, and invigorated by 
its mighty energies; — men that "forsook their country," 
went out, not knowing whither they went, and became 
strangers and pilgrims upon the earth — Abraham and 
all the patriarchs ; men who, through the distance of a 
thousand years, saw the Redeemer afar off, before he 
had descended upon earth, and followed the bare and 
distant promise of God, as if it were the full and living 
substance: they submitted to exile, suffering, and re- 
proach ; and what is the reason that is assigned 1 "As 
seeing Him who is invisible." The Redeemer, to 
them, was a dim and twinkling star ; and yet cheerful- 
ly and gratefully did they steer their lonely course by 
its mild and sacred influence. But upon us the Sun of 
Righteousness has risen. 

The apostle (after closing his glorious list of those 
who saw Him that was invisible, long before he came,) 
turns round upon those who believe that he has come, 
and summons them to imitate their example : " Where- 
fore, seeing we are compassed with so great a cloud of 
witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin 
that doth so easily beset us : and let us run with pa- 
tience the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus, 
the author and the finisher of our faith;" unto Jesus— 
who was invisible ! 

And gloriously did he who tells you that your " faith 
must be the substance of things hoped for," and who 



166 SERMON II. 

summons you to look unto the invisible Redeemer — glori- 
ously did he fulfil his own injunction; for, looking unto 
him, did he and the whole company of the apostles, and 
the glorious army of martyrs, precipitate themselves 
through peril, persecution, and death. The descrip- 
tion of what they suffered makes the blood run cold; — 
and yet how do they speak of it? " This light affliction ! 
this light affliction, which endureth but for a moment, 
worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight 
of glory; while we look not at the things which are 
seen, but at the things which are not seen." It was by 
looking at things invisible as if actually present, that 
they proved more than conquerors in all their struggles. 

Another of that glorious company, exhorting his con- 
verts to give trial of their faith, points to Him that is 
invisible — "whom having not seen, ye love; in whom, 
though now ye see him not, yet believing, ye rejoice 
with joy unspeakable and full of glory. 5 ' 

May we, as we value the souls that he has purchased 
— as we value the blessings that he offers, so keep him 
living in our view, that we may run the race that is set 
before us ; and whether it be our destiny to perish by 
the slow and icy hand of disease, or by the angry vio- 
lence of man, may we be found looking unto the " Au- 
thor and Finisher of our faith, with our eye fixed on 
Him that is invisible !" 



SERMON III. 



Genesis, i. 26. 

And God said, Let us make man in our image after 
our likeness. 

If a man were suddenly asked, To what created be- 
ing he would compare the Almighty; what object, 
among all those that surrounded him, he conceived to 
have been originally intended by its Creator for his pe- 
culiar image and representative 1 he would probably 
point to the sun, and would say, that there he saw God 
at once most faithfully and most gloriously represented. 
He would say, that in it we seemed "to live, and move, 
and have our being;" that every where, and at every 
moment, its influence is felt ; that it appears to possess 
the power of calling things into existence, and of con- 
signing them to nothing again ; that all creation seems 
to depend upon it for sustenance, comfort, and enjoy- 
ment ; that by its kind and gracious light we become 
acquainted with each other, and with the objects by 
which we are surrounded ; that it both gives us all that 
we enjoy, and afterwards enables us to enjoy it; and 
that, like its Almighty Creator, it has no respect of 
persons, but scatters its rich blessings abroad with 
generous and impartial liberality. This would be a 
very natural answer : and thus we find that the first 
kind of idolatry of which men were guilty, was the 
worship of the sun ; and in some nations it is still con- 
tinued, and he is there regarded not so much the image 
of the Divinity, as the Divinity himself. 



168 SERMON III. 

But there was a time when there was a more magni- 
ficent representative of the Godhead. There was a 
time when we were preferred before the sun, and the 
moon, and the host of heaven. But a little before, God 
had formed the sun, and the stars, and the firmament, 
and he saw that they were good ; and yet not one of 
these did he pronounce his image, — and as if he thought 
he was coming to a greater work than all before, and 
one in which he felt himself more particularly interest- 
ed, he seems to prepare Himself for our creation, — 
" Let us make man in our own image." For the pro- 
duction of inferior animated beings, he was contented 
to employ inferior agents : when he would create other 
living things, he commands the waters and the earth to 
produce them. " Let the waters bring forth abundant- 
ly the moving creature that hath life, and fowl that may 
fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven; 
— and let the earth bring forth the living creature after 
his kind, and cattle, and creeping thing, and beasts of 
the earth after their kind." But when he comes to 
man, he seems to rise to the work Himself; " Let us 
make man in our own image." He appears to have 
taken great and unbounded delight in the production 
of mankind. The blessing which he pronounced upon 
him is repeated a second time, as if he felt peculiar 
pleasure in bestowing it ; and when his work was fin- 
ished, he looked with fondness upon the image of him- 
self that he had made, and pronounced it to be very 
good ; it is as if he had said, ' I give you a portion of 
my glory and my character ; I consign it into your 
hands and your care. Behold, I gave the sun a portion 
of my light, and bade him go forth with it into the world 
as my servant and my minister ; but I give you a share 
of my attributes and my immortality, and my everlasting 
blessing is upon you if you fulfil the trust.' — Which of 
us will now stand forward and claim the fulfilment 1 

This image — this beautiful image has been long since 
shivered and disfigured ; but its fragments remain to 
testify that it once existed. There is in the hearts of 



SERMON III, 169 

men a testimony that they shall live for ever ; a voice 
that echoes through futurity; a sense that they shall 
see strange things in another world; thoughts that 
wander through eternity, and find no resting place. 
This is a fragment of God's image, a shattered remnant 
of his immortality, and it is there to testify against us ; 
for if it had been perfect, nothing would be more delight- 
ful than to think that we should live for ever ; to look 
forward into brighter scenes, and rejoice in the glory 
that should be revealed. All the gold of Arabia would 
not be worth one hour's excursion of the mind of man 
into the regions of futurity. For ever and for ever 
would his mind be reaching forward, and dwelling with 
fondness upon the thought, that never, from age to age, 
when time should be no more, should he cease from 
being. The pleasures of the spirits that walk to and 
fro in the light of God's countenance, and circle his 
throne rejoicing, would crowd his fancy and delight his 
hopes. Visions of celestial happiness would visit him 
in dreams of the night, and, compared with the dim 
and distant perspective of eternity, all earthly things 
would seem "weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable." 
And what is the fact? Let every man judge himself 
how his natural heart shrinks from the contemplation 
of a future state of being ; how he shudders to look 
into eternity, as into some dreary and bottomless pit. 
What a cold and dismal thing does immortality appear ; 
and what a refreshment it is to his spirits to withdraw 
his thoughts from the consideration, and return to his 
beloved earth! And then, only observe with what ^ea- 
gerness and desperation he gives up soul and body to 
the pursuit of things which he knows full well will 
«oon be to him as if they had never been. And yet, 
this man, if you were to ask him the question, would 
tell you, that he expected to live for ever ; and that 
when his body was mouldering in the dust from which 
it was taken, his soul would plunge into an ocean of 
spirits without bottom and without shore. This he 
would tell you gravely, as a matter of course. And 

15 



170 SERMON III. 

then only observe him for one week or for one day, or 
for this day, which has been sanctified to immortal pur- 
poses, and you will find his cares, his hopes, his fears, 
his wishes, his affections, busied and bustling about this 
little span of earth, and this little measure of time which 
he occupies, and death finds this immortal being making 
playthings of sand, and carries him away from them all, 
into a land where they shall all be forgotten. This is 
a strange and astonishing contradiction, — the only 
thing that looks like a blunder through all the works of 
nature. Every thing else seems to know its appointed 
time and its appointed place : — the sun knows his place 
in the heavens, he does his duty in the firmament, and 
brings round the seasons in their order, and the ocean 
knows the boundaries beyond which it must not dare to 
pass ; — every animal knows the home that kind nature 
has provided — " the ox knoweth his owner, and the ass 
his master's crib: but Israel doth not know; my people 
doth not consider." Among all the creatures that sur- 
round us, we are the only beings that look not to our 
native home ; the only beings that seem to have broken 
the laws of nature ; to have forgotten our owner, and 
the mansions of our Father's house. This naked ex- 
pectation of immortality, while we see no beauty in it, 
that we should desire it — while we are feeding on ashes, 
and have lost our relish for immortal food — is one of the 
fragments of God's image ; it shews that it once exist- 
ed, and that it now is broken. 

But look again, and observe all the astonishing fac- 
ulties of man; his reason, his memory, his imagination. 
Observe only how he can, as it were, take knowledge by 
violence, how he can lock it up in his memory, and keep 
it in store for his use ; with what quickness and ingenu- 
ity he can invent and contrive ; with what judgment 
he can weigh, and deliberate, and decide ; how he can 
extort nature's secrets, how he can penetrate into the 
distant works of God, and inform when the sun shall 
be darkened, and when the moon shall refuse to give 
her light. 



SERMON III. 171 

Consider all these astonishing faculties, worthy of 
the master piece of God, and then look at the brutal 
and abominable passions that blacken and deface his 
soul ; look at this same immortal creature, beautified 
with all the gifts of the Almighty, blotting out the very 
understanding with which he has been glorified, by a 
drunkenness of which brutes are incapable ; nay, some- 
times "glorying in his shame," and boasting of hav- 
ing thus spoiled the good work of God ! Observe him 
next, inflamed with lust, and plunged into profligacy 
and debauchery, and making the eternal soul, that has 
been armed with such glorious faculties, the servant 
and slave of his perishable body. Observe him rioting 
in hatred, malignity, and revenge, and admitting the 
dark passions of an evil spirit into the soul that the 
Almighty had made to be an habitation for himself. 

Measure now this creature with himself; the wonder- 
ful powers of his mind, the grasp of his memory, the 
lightning of his invention, with the depravity of which 
the beast of the field is incapable ; the impurity that 
brings his soul into bondage to his body, the malice 
and revenge that make hi n an abode of the spirit of 
darkness. Truly " the wild beasts are in our ruins, 
and the dragons are in our pleasant places." These 
are fragments of an image that was beautiful ; enough 
to shew that it once existed, and that now it is broken. 

And amongst these ruins there is a voice sometimes 
heard, like the spirit of a departed inhabitant, unwil- 
ling to leave even the ruins of the palace which he 
once had occupied ; a voice that " reasons of right- 
eousness, temperance, and judgment to come ;" that 
sometimes catches the ear in the momentary stillness 
of the day, and still more in the dead of the night, be- 
fore deep sleep falleth upon men ; but, like the murmur 
of a ghost, men cannot bear to listen to it, but hurry 
out of its reach. And thus does conscience sometimes 
remind us of former days, of hours of sin, of time 
squandered away that can never be recovered, of an 
impure heart, of a worldly and carnal mind, and provea 



172 



SERMON III. 



that it is a remnant of God ; for it tells us " that for 
all these things, God will bring us into judgment." 

But, alas ! it does no more than reproach and con- 
demn ; for, alas ! it cannot change an old heart ; it 
cannot u create a new spirit within us ;" it cannot 
raise our affections from the dust upon which we are 
treading ; it cannot fill us with heavenly dispositions ; 
it cannot make us look forward with delight, to scenes 
of future glory. Alas ! this is beyond the power of 
conscience ; it serves to reproach, but cannot restore ; 
— it is but a ghost among the ruins, — but a voice 
among the tombs ; it is a poor remnant of what once 
was a living image of the Almighty ; enough to shew 
that it once existed, and that now it is broken. 

But again, observe him gifted with the power of 
speech, the power of communicating thought for 
thought, and circulating knowledge, and truth, and 
love through all his fellow-creatures. Just conceive 
for one moment what he would be without it ; how 
black, how ignorant, how dreary, how comfortless ! — 
where would then be mutual assistance, mutual advice r 
the communication of knowledge, the interchange of 
affection ? Observe man, the only created being en- 
dowed with this glorious faculty, and then consider the 
use that he has made of it. Listen to the curses and 
the blasphemy against the very Being who bestowed it y 
who gave it, that it might rise before the throne in hal- 
lelujahs. Then hear the falsehood, the deceit, the pre- 
varication issuing through the channel where truth 
should for ever flow ; then hear the impure and wan- 
ton jest, that circulates poison, and nurses and assists 
the natural corruption of the heart, when (God knows!) 
it has enough to corrupt and brutalise it within ; then 
listen to the scandal, the malice, the invective, and the 
recrimination, upon the tongue to which God gave the 
eloquence of affection and benevolence, and the music 
of pity and consolation ; then attend to the lips that 
can be eloquent and voluble on every subject but one, 
—that can descant on the market and its prices, on 



SERMON III. 173 

the world and its fashions and its politics, nay, on eve- 
ry little impulse of the feelings, and every fine-spun 
sentiment of the mind ; but if the great God intrudes 
into conversation, his ways or his dispensations, his 
mercies and his loving-kindnesses, the tide begins to 
ebb, the glow of society dies away, and the cold and 
heartless silence betrays that an unwelcome stranger 
has made his appearance. Truly this is a magnificent 
fragment of that illustrious image ; enough to shew 
that it once existed, and that now it is shivered and 
broken. 

Alas ! it is no wonder that when God looked again 
upon the earth, and saw the wickedness of man, that 
he said, " I will destroy man from off the face of the 
earth." Nor was he deterred from doing so by the 
multitude that it overwhelmed in ruin. In those days, 
no doubt, they compared themselves with one another ; 
no doubt they said, ■ We are all tolerably alike ; none 
of us is singularly wicked ; if God punishes me, he 
must punish the rest of mankind along with me.' But 
did God therefore withhold his hand ? No ; but it is 
stated as the very reason of his vengeance, that all the 
earth was sunk in wickedness ; and their guilt was ag- 
gravated by the very circumstance that they counten- 
anced each other in their sin, and thus joined in a kind 
of deliberate rebellion against his authority. 

But, even leaving punishment out of the account, 
conceive what must be the natural consequence of 
having, as it were, disappointed the object of our crea- 
tion, and of having run counter to God's original in- 
tention. Must not the natural end of those things be 
ruin ? But, " Thou turnest man to destruction : 
again thou sayest, Come again, ye children of men." — 
The Creator said, once more, " Let us make man in 
our own image ;" and he came down himself from 
heaven to create him a second time. He left his bright 
and glorious abode on high, for us poor and wretched 
wanderers, who had not only forsaken his good and 
pleasant paths, but had actually forgotten that we need- 

15* 



174 



SERMON III. 



ed one to bring us back again ; who were so degenera~ 
ted as to have forgotten onr degeneracy ; and he came 
to create us anew, and he came as " a man of sorrows,, 
and acquainted with grief :" that we might once more 
become the image of God, he was contented to come 
himself in the image of man ; and by that stupendous 
atonement upon the cross, — by that sacrifice, which 
will be regarded with astonishment by men and angels 
to all eternity, he has accomplished his new work of 
creation. We are told that " our old man was crucifi- 
ed with him ;" so that we are to " put off, according to 
the former conversation, the old man which is corrupt 
according to the deceitful lusts, and put on the new 
man, which after God is created in righteousness and 
true holiness." We are declared expressly to be 
" God's workmanship, created anew in Christ Jesus, 
unto good works." 

But how is it, you will say, that the death of Christ 
becomes second life to us 1 How is it that his suffer- 
ings can create us anew \ By this one sacrifice he bore 
in his own person the punishment due to our sins* 
" He was wounded for our transgressions, he was 
bruised for our iniquities ; the chastisement of our 
peace was upon him ; and by his stripes we are healed. 
All we, like sheep, had gone astray, we turned every 
one to his own way ; and the Lord hath laid on him 
the iniquity of us all." By this satisfaction to his jus- 
tice, the communication was once more opened between 
God and man ; for we are told, " That God was in 
Christ, reconciling the world unto himself, not impu- 
ting their trespasses ;" and through his merits, his 
atonement, and his intercession, the gift of the Holy 
Spirit was procured, by which the image of God may 
be again stamped upon our hearts, and our souls mould- 
ed into a resemblance to Him " who is of purer eyes 
than to behold iniquity." Thus does God again 
" breathe into his nostrils the breath of life, and man 
again becomes a living soul," Him that cometh to this 



SERMON IV. 



175 



good Creator, he " will in no wise cast out ;" " for as 
God liveth, he willeth not the death of a sinner." 

But we must come deeply sensible of our want of a 
renewing spirit and of a purifying influence. God will 
not cast his pearls before swine, " lest they trample 
them under foot." We must learn our lost and ruined 
state. We must feel that our natural hearts have wan- 
dered far from him who is the only fountain of all that 
is good ; that we have followed our own ways and our 
own imaginations, and that we are unable to recover 
ourselves from the broad way that leadeth to destruc- 
tion ; for it is not a few partial changes, a few sins now 
and then forsaken, that can restore us to our former 
glorious state. Alas ! the poison has sunk deeper ; 
it has mixed with our heart's blood, and penetrated into 
our vitals. If we do not feel thus naturally corrupt 
and helpless, and that we need a higher power than 
our own to change, to strengthen, and to purify — let us 
save ourselves ; let us not call ourselves by the name of 
Christ; let us act a bold, manly, and a consistent part ; 
renounce him, and declare honestly that by our own 
strength will we stand or fall ,* that by ourselves we 
are willing to encounter the burning eye of God ; that 
we are able to deliver ourselves from that justice which 
demands blood for sin ; and that we can change and 
purify our own hearts, and of ourselves mould them into 
the image of the Almighty. 

But if we feel ourselves truly unable either to escape 
from punishment or to qualify ourselves for heaven, let 
us come with an humble and contrite spirit to Him who 
died that he might give gifts unto men, and submit our- 
selves to his creative influence. "A bruised reed will 
he not break." " He will gather the lambs with his 
arms." As we look to him with prayer, and converse 
with him through his Gospel, we shall find new and 
better dispositions growing within us, — holier habits of 
thought collecting and increasing, — a new interest ex- 
cited within us about things regarded before with indif- 
ference, — a power over sin that is an earnest of future 
triumphs, — a pleasure in studying the divine dispensa- 



176 SERMON IV. 

tions, and discovering fresh traces of wisdom and good* 
ness where others see nothing but what is gloomy and 
unintelligible, — and an activity in the fulfilment of 
every duty to God and man. And then " to him that 
hath shall be given ;" — our progress in grace and obedi- 
ence will every day become easier and more delightful, 
— our perceptions of future and invisible things will be- 
come more lively, and our affections will be set upon 
things eternal in the heavens, where Christ sitteth at 
the right hand of God. Those subjects of thought 
which we before considered cheerless and tiresome, will 
wear a beauty that was before unperceived : — and the 
obedience that before appeared irksome and insupport- 
able, will become our light yoke and our easy burden. 
We shall be able to measure our advance, by keeping 
our eye steadfastly fixed upon him, who came to new- 
create us by his Spirit into the image of God ; who was 
himself the express image of the Father, softened down 
to human comprehension and human imitation. By 
keeping our eye upon that holy and divine Redeemer 
as our pattern, and as the source of our means of con- 
forming to it ; by constantly asking ourselves the so- 
lemn and humiliating question — " Is it thus that Christ 
would have thought, or said, or acted ? — or is this the 
temper by which he would have been actuated V — can 
we alone attain even the faintest resemblance. How- 
ever short we may be of our divine original, we must 
not dare to take any human pattern. Even the devoted 
Paul said, " Be ye followers of me as I am of Christ." 
Divine and delightful Redeemer ! who didst turn from 
thy bright course among the stars unto the valley of the 
shadow of death for our sake, — suffer us not — suffer us 
not to think it too much to turn from the broad way (hat 
leadeth to destruction, to meet thee in this career of 
mercy ! Suffer us not to look at thee only to hate thy 
beams, that bring to our remembrance what we were — 
from what height fallen ! but change us by thy light 
and thy Spirit to thine own glorious image ; " and 
when we awake up after thy likeness, we shall be satis* 
fied with it." 



SERMON IV 



Matthew, xiii. 44. 

The kingdom of Heaven is like unto treasure hid in a 
field, the which when a man hath found, he hideth, and 
for joy thereof goeth, and selleth all that he hath, and 
buyeth that field. 

This is our Saviour's account of the kingdom of 
Heaven. The great body of mankind appear to differ 
with him in opinion. They do not seem to agree with 
him in either of the two points that he has here stated ; 
— neither acknowledging, that the kingdom of Heaven 
is a hidden treasure ; nor admitting that, even when 
discovered, it may cost a man all that he has to attain 
it. That they are of a different opinion from our Sa- 
viour upon these subjects scarcely requires a proof. 
The case between them may be briefly stated thus : — 
According to him, the kingdom of Heaven is a bidden 
treasure. Salvation is a treasure which is naturally 
none of ours. Among all the riches that nature has 
scattered over the surface of the world, it is not to be 
found. — If we would find it, we must turn our back 
upon them all ; and seek for it as if we were diving 
into the bowels of the earth. But what says the world 1 
So far from regarding everlasting life as a hidden treas- 
ure which they must use all their power and diligence 
to explore, they consider it to be something that they 
may stoop for in their hurry through life, without either 
checking their speed, or turning aside either to the 
right hand or to the left. If they really and soberly 



178 



SERMON IV. 



believed that eternal life was something that was natu- 
rally hidden from them, and which they must turn out 
of their way to look for, or perish for ever, — it seems 
impossible that they could go wandering up and down 
the face of the earth in search of other objects, with 
the weight of such a conviction as this hanging heavy 
upon their souls. With such a thought as this follow- 
ing them, like a spectre, through life, — gliding by them 
during the business of the day, — glaring upon them in 
the repose of the night, — what strength or what spirits 
would these wretched men have to go on snatching 
those things, the end of which they knew to be death ? 
And yet, look back at the world from which you have 
now for a few moments escaped, and to which you will 
soon, in a few moments, return ; and recollect, — how 
many do you imagine have ever stopped short in the 
middle of their career, and for even one day have look- 
ed round for salvation ; — who have stepped aside out of 
the world as it was sweeping along, and have returned 
to seek for the solitary spot where the treasures of mercy 
and immortality were concealed ? Nay, rather, how 
many do you recollect, who were following every object 
of human pursuit except this one — that is worth them 
all ? Recollect how many of them would look at you 
as a strange man, who had taken up wild and fanciful 
notions, if you were to ask them a plain question, that 
shall be put to them at the day of judgment, — " Did you 
seek Jirst the kingdom of God, and his righteousness V 
Truly, if they seek a kingdom of Heaven, it cannot be 
that of which our Saviour speaks, for " that is a hid- 
den treasure ;" truly, if they find a kingdom of Heaven, 
it must be a new one of their own discovery, — they 
must stumble upon it in the highway, and meet it in 
the markets ; but let them not look for that which he 
has promised, for, alas ! it lies not in the wide gate, 
and the broad way ; for, if we believe him, they lead 
to destruction. And if you will trust for salvation to 
your generous Redeemer, who paid himself, body and 
blood, for you, rather than to the hollow-hearted world, 



SERMON IV. 179 

that would wring the last pittance from your dying grasp 
before it was cold, you must retire from the broad and 
beaten track where the world is driving along in pursuit 
of all its vanities, and seek for the treasure that God has 
buried ; and, as you approach the spot, be sure to put 
your shoes from off your feet, for " the place where 
you stand is holy ground :" you must leave earth and 
earthly things behind you, for, remember, you are look- 
ing for the kingdom of Heaven. 

Observe the reason why the treasure is hidden. Is it 
that your Almighty Father is unwilling that you should 
attain it ? Is it that he takes pleasure in your destruc- 
tion? Or is it that he apprehends his riches may be ex- 
pended, his beneficence impoverished, his store of 
mercies exhausted ? Is he too unmindful of you to save 
you? " Behold, he makes his sun to rise on the just 
and the unjust." No: but if we observe the circum- 
stances under which this very parable was delivered, 
we shall learn why salvation is hidden from us : it 
was related, amongst many other parables, to a vast 
multitude that covered the sea-shore. The subjects of 
which these parables treated were the most awful upon 
which the human mind and the human heart can be 
exercised : — the laws, the judgments, the dispensations 
of God : the duty of man in this state ; his lot in that 
which is to come. Yet from this multitude the king- 
dom of God was hid ; they understood not what he 
spake ; though " they had eyes, they saw not ; though 
they had ears, they heard not ; and their hearts were 
hardened." The great truths of religion were sound- 
ing around them on every side — and they attended not; 
for they looked for an earthly prince, who should bring 
them riches, power, and dominion ; they looked for the 
kingdom of this world — they looked not for the king- 
dom of heaven ; and therefore was that treasure hid 
from them, because they understood not its value ; they 
did not feel it to be a treasure. No : God will not 
" cast his pearls before swine." But come to him with 
a profound sense of the value of an immortal soul ; come 



180 



SERMON IV. 



to him with humble anxiety to learn where your treasure 
is buried, and he will not be wanting to you. If you 
lack wisdom, ask him ; for " he giveth to all men libe- 
rally, and upbraideth not." Take your Bible on the 
one side, and your heart on the other, and weigh them 
well together. Look in the one at the holiness of God ; 
look in the other at the corruption and insignificance 
of man ; then prostrate yourself before your Father, 
and beseech him to shew you the way of salvation, — 
and he will not be wanting. There will be angels with 
you at midnight, who will descend upon you while you 
are studying his will, and tell you that " for you is born 
a Saviour." He will command his star to rise for you 
in the East, and it shall stand over the place where your 
treasure lies. There go, and ye shall find that " which 
cannot be gotten for gold, neither shall silver be weigh- 
ed for the price thereof. It cannot be valued with the 
gold of Ophir, with the onyx, or the sapphire ; no men- 
tion. shall be made of corals or of pearls ; and the topaz 
of Ethiopia cannot equal it." Take care how you un- 
dervalue this salvation ; for remember, and remember 
again, that the reason why this treasure is hidden from 
any man is, — because he does not feel its value. If 
the kingdom of Heaven be hid from you ; if Christ's 
atonement be not yours ; if he be still buried, and be 
not risen for you ; the reason is because you do not 
know its value ; for, to them that believe, " Christ cru- 
cified is the power of God and the wisdom of God." 

How then are we to know and feel its value % The 
first thing is evidently this ; to know and feel what sin 
is, in all its awful enormity : for is it not evident, that 
we cannot estimate and embrace salvation unless we 
are profoundly sensible of the danger from which we 
are saved 1 Consult your own common-sense. Is it 
not folly to say, that you believe in Jesus Christ, and 
hope to be saved by his blood from your sins, when you 
are not fully sensible of the guilt of those sins, and the 
punishment they would draw down upon your head 1 
Be assured God will not save those who do not deeply 



SERMON IV. 



181 



feel, from the very bottom of their hearts, their want 
of a Saviour. If you do not feel it, save yourself; but 
if you think that too bold an undertaking, then away 
to your own heart, and know what it is to have offend- 
ed Almighty God, and to have called for nothing less 
than the blood of Christ to purify it ! Consider only the 
things you have done ; consider all your direct and de- 
liberate transgressions of the Law of God, against 
which your own conscience exclaimed loudly, but in 
vain: consider all these things that you have left un- 
done which you ought to have done, all your silent 
omissions ; — sins, many of which stole by you softly, 
without noise, or alarm to your conscience, because you 
did not keep it alive and vigilant to your immortal con- 
cerns ; — awful and treacherous sins ! because they 
gather as you count them, so that you know not how 
many are behind: but, above all, consider that sin, 
which is the fountain of all other sin, the disposition of 
mind from which they flow, — the habitual forgetfulness 
of God ; the everlasting and uninterrupted transgres- 
sion of the great Law of God to man, — " Thou shalt 
love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with all thy 
soul, and with all thy strength." Then, when you 
have weighed those sins and fallen down prostrate un- 
der the weight of them before your gracious Redeemer, 
smiting your breast and saying, " God be merciful to 
me a sinner !" then will you be able to understand the 
value of that treasure which God has bestowed, and 
then indeed will you feel the reason why it is buried and 
hidden from the rabble who are running headlong after 
riches, and pleasures, and honours, — because they do 
not feel their want of it. 

But though a sense of sin, a broken and contrite 
heart, is the first and indispensable requisite to forming 
a just estimate of our redemption, and, therefore, to our 
taking the full advantage of it ; blessed be God ! it is 
not the only one. 

There is a second requisite behind : and what is it ? 
The words before us will disclose : " Which treasure 

16 



182 



SERMON IV. 



when a man hath found, for joy thereof he goeth, and 
selleth all that he hath, and buyeth that field." The 
first, the necessary, the bitter requisite, is grief; grief 
for those sins that nailed the Son of God to the cross, 
and pierced his side. But the second is joy ; joy that 
man cannot give, and man cannot take away. Now 
observe that this joy depends for its very existence upon 
the sorrow that precedes it, and is in proportion to its 
extent : for to say that we shall rejoice at a salvation 
from those sins which caused us no sorrow or no alarm, 
would be truly absurd : and here can we see how a 
Christian's sorrow and a Christian's joy go hand in hand ; 
and as " there is more joy in Heaven over one sinner that 
repenteth, than over ninety and nine who need no 
repentance ;" so is there more joy in the breast of that 
sinner over his own repentance, than will ever exist in 
the breast of those who fancy they need none. Let 
this convince us how poor, how cold, how hardened are 
our hearts ! for how few of us can really remember to 
have rejoiced over the salvation which Christ has 
wrought for him, with half the delight which he has 
felt at some earthly success, some temporal advantage. 
Recollect, there will be an hour of your life — the last — 
when the sweetest music that ever reached your ear 
would be the voice that would' whisper, with an author- 
ity from God, that " yours was the kingdom of heaven." 
It would make the blood thrill freely again through the 
frame from which it was just ebbing and subsiding : it 
would make the faint lips colour, and utter a gasp of 
thankfulness, that appeared to have been locked in ever- 
lasting silence ; it would make the eyes open with a 
gleam of joy, that appeared to have been closed for 
ever. Have you felt any thing like this? 

But beware how you mistake that joy which may indi- 
cate that you have found that treasure. Behold ! you 
will know it by its fruits ; for he who felt that joy 
" went and sold all that he had, and bought that field." 
He made no bargain : he did not say, this much of the 
world will I keep, and thus much will I resign ; he did 



SERMON IV. 183 

not say, I will keep my covetousness, but I will resign 
my sensuality ; he did not say, I will retain my drunk- 
enness, but will surrender my malice and revenge : but 
he comes humbly and devotedly, and flings down his 
vices, his passions, and his prejudices, before the 
throne of Almighty God, and says, " Take all, take 
every thing, take what thou wilt, and give me that which 
contains my salvation !" 

It is true, men will laugh at his improvidence and 
simplicity : and when they see him cheerfully relin- 
quishing the riches they so desperately pursue, and the 
pleasures of which they are so fondly enamoured, they 
will exclaim, What a foolish bargain has this man 
made in giving such a fine price for that barren field ! 
■ — but what will he care, when he knows what it con- 
tains ? Morning and evening will he retire to the solita- 
ry spot, and beseech his good Father to put a holy 
guard over the place, that no evil may come near, to 
rob him of his hope and his happiness : and in the 
day will he watch, lest he should be plundered by that 
enemy, who knows its value well, for he once enjoyed it, 
and has lost it for ever. 

Yet do not conceive that he will remain in listless re- 
tirement and indolent meditation ; for in that treasure 
he will find the armour of righteousness, in which he 
will array himself on the right hand and on the left ; — 
from that treasure will he take the helmet of salva- 
tion and place it firmly upon his head ; — from that 
will he gird himself with the sword of the Spirit, and 
his feet shall be shod with the preparation of the gospel 
of peace : — and at the time when men are fretting them- 
selves about their hollow pleasures, — forgetting per- 
haps that such a being ever existed, — or remember- 
ing him only in order to ridicule the silly sacrifice that 
the poor man had made, — he will come out suddenly 
amongst them, all richly and gorgeously apparelled, to 
run his race of faith, and hope, and charity, in the 
eyes of all mankind ; so that men shall look at each 
other aghast, and shall say, as they did of him who is 



184 SERMON IV. 

the author and giver of all these gifts,, — " Is not this 
the son of a man like ourselves 1" Whence hath this 
man all these things 1 But they cannot long mistake 
whence it proceeds : — when such a light shines before 
men, they cannot but say, " Truly this is God's work !" 
and many may be led to look for that treasure, which 
they see can produce such glorious riches. 



SERMON V. 



Matthew, x. 28 

Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, 
and I will give you rest. 

If an inhabitant of some distant part of the universe, 
— some angel that had never visited the earth, had 
been told that there was a world in which such an in- 
vitation had been neglected and despised, he would 
surely say: "The inhabitants of that world must be a 
very happy people ; — there can be but few among them 
that labour and are heavy laden ; — no doubt they must 
be strangers to poverty, sorrow, and misfortune ; — the 
pestilence cannot come nigh their dwellings, neither 
does death ever knock at their doors; — and, of course, 
they must be unacquainted with sin, and all the miser- 
ies that are its everlasting companions. " 

If such were our case, we might let our Bibles moul- 
der into dust, and "refuse to hear the voice of the 
charmer, charm he never so wisely;" — even of him 
who says, " Come unto me, and I will give you rest." 
So that the first thing we are naturally led to consider 
iii this, as in every other invitation, is the kind of per- 
sons to whom it is addressed : for if we do not find that 
we correspond to the description, it would be a waste 
of time to expend any further consideration upon the 
subject. 

It is addressed to those that labour and are heavy la- 
den : so are all the promises of the Gospel. They are 
alj made in language of the fondest, the kindest, the 

16* 



186 



SERMON V. 



most affectionate consolation. It is language that could 
not be understood, that would be utterly unmeaning, if 
addressed to those who were perfectly at ease in their 
feelings, and had no weight upon their minds. To him 
that is at ease in his possessions, the Gospel speaks in 
a solemn and hollow voice : " Thou fool, this night thy 
soul may be required of thee, and then, whose shall all 
those things be V But to those whose hearts are dis- 
quieted within them, it speaks in a tone of the softest 
tenderness, and the most enchanting compassion. 

How is the office of our Redeemer described, first 
by the prophet, and afterwards by himself? " The Spir- 
it of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord hath 
anointed me to preach good tidings to the meek ; he 
hath sent me to bind up the broken-hearted, — to pro- 
claim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the 
prison to them that are bound ; — to comfort all that 
mourn ; — to give unto them beauty for ashes, — the oil 
of joy, for mourning, — the garment of praise for the 
spirit of heaviness.' 5 

Now this is what our Saviour came to perform : it is 
the formal description of his office ; and you perceive 
he is sent to the broken-hearted, — to the captives, — to 
them that are bound, — to them that mourn, — to them 
that are in the spirit of heaviness. At one time, he is 
beautifully represented as speaking " a word in season 
to him that is weary;" at another, he is described as 
"the Sun of Righteousness, rising with healing on his 
wings." He opened his ministry with blessings " on 
the poor in Spirit ;" with blessings " on them that 
mourn." He answered the accusations of the proud 
men who were at ease in their possessions, and who felt 
not heavy laden, that he " came not to those that were 
whole, but to those that were sick;" and then he points 
to the humble publican who came heavy-laden to the 
house of God, so that he could not lift up his eyes unto 
heaven, under his burden, — and that man found rest 
unto his soul. And when that Redeemer was about to 
depart, — that Redeemer, whose office it was to bind up 



SERMON V. 187 

the broken-hearted, to comfort them that mourn, to 
give rest to the heavy-laden, — what did he promise ? 
"Another Comforter, that should abide with us for 
ever." Such is the strain of the Gospel from begin- 
ning to end. It is the ministry of consolation, that 
therefore, from its very nature, speaks only to them that 
need to be consoled. 

The Gospel is " a word in season to him that is 
weary ;" therefore it speaks only to him that is weary, 
to him that is seeking rest and finding none; and to 
him it brings relief, refreshment, and repose. It finds 
you a bruised reed, — it props and supports you. It 
finds you weeping, — and it wipes away all tears from 
your eyes. It finds you fearful, cheerless, disquieted, — 
and it gives you courage, hope, and tranquillity. There 
is a wilderness before her, and the garden of Eden be- 
hind ; before her is lamentation, and mourning, and 
woe ; behind her, come thanksgiving and the voice of 
melody. 

Thus is the Gospel an invitation to those that are 
heavy-laden ; and it is the business of every man to ask 
himself solemnly the question — " Is he one of those 
who are invited?" If you be one of those who labour 
and are heavy-laden, — come now, come freely, and you 
shall find rest unto your souls ! (We shall presently con- 
sider how you are to come, so as to accept this invi- 
tation.) 

But if you are not heavy-laden, ask yourself the cause. 
Is it because you have already accepted this invitation, 
and have already found rest unto your soul? If this be 
the case, " good luck have thou with thine honour ! ride 
on, because of the word of truth, of meekness, and of 
righteousness !" 

But is your mind at ease? is there no weight upon 
your spirits? You are, perhaps, at rest ; but it may not 
be the rest that Christ has promised. Then this invita- 
tion is not to you ; it is to the heavy-laden : the Gospel 
has no promises for you ; for its promises are those of 
comfort and consolation. If you are contented with this 



188 SERMON V. 

fearful ease, "sleep on, and take your rest!" perhaps 
you will not awake until the sound of the last trumpet. 
But if this is too terrible a resolution, then rouse your- 
self this instant But you may say, "How am I to be 
come one of those who are here invited? Am I to go 
wandering over the world in search of some burden that 
may qualify me to accept this invitation ? Am I to in- 
vent some new kind of grief for myself, — to strike out 
some unnatural kind of uneasiness? Where is this 
heavy burden ? where is this sorrow, without which I 
cannot come to him?" — "Behold it is nigh thee, even 
in thy mouth and in thy heart." It is in thy mouth : — 
there is scarcely a day of our lives that we do not utter 
or hear some complaint against mankind, and the world r 
and the inconstancy of human affairs. Where will you 
turn yourself without meeting a man to salute you with 
a murmur ? to tell you that something has gone wrong 
with him — that something is not as it should be? 
Where will you find a man that has not some thorn in 
his side ? The world is full of these cowardly and des- 
picable complaints ; — and no one dreams of a neglect- 
ed Saviour, that stands ready to give you rest from them 
all. Really and truly, do you mean to say that, when 
you are asked at the day of judgment why you did not 
come to him who offered rest to the heavy-laden, you 
will be able to answer with sincerity — " I was too hap- 
py to come to him; I felt no burden." But it would 
not be in thy mouth, if it were not also in thy heart. 

Consider the words : they are set in opposition to 
the words "yoke and burden," a few verses below ? 
where Christ offers his yoke to those that labour, and 
his burden to those that are heavy-laden: so that the 
words imply bondage and toil. It means : — Come to 
me, all ye that labour under any galling yoke, and all 
ye that are laden with any heavy burdens, and I will 
give you rest. 

First : are you one who are in the service of any sin 
against which you know that the wrath of God is regis- 
tered ? Are you in bondage to any of your lusts or 



SERMON V. 



189 



appetites, and labouring under its yoke, so that it turns 
and drives you, like one of your own cattle, wherever 
it pleases, so that it does what it likes with you, and 
says,- — " Go, and you go ; do this, and you do it?" and 
do you afterwards feel the heavy burden of your own 
contempt, and of a guilty conscience, — a burden that 
makes you feel you have degraded yourself to the rank 
of a brute, that can be turned with a bit and a bridle, 
— a burden that weighs you down and prevents you 
from looking up to Heaven like a man, lest you see 
wrath written against you, and fiery indignation 1 Or 
are you one who are in the service of the world, fret- 
ting yourself under a yoke of toils, and cares, and 
watchings, and long calculations ; and have you felt the 
burden of many a bitter disappointment ; and, at all 
events, the weight upon your mind, that an hour will 
come when you will be called away from all the things 
upon which you have set your affections ; when you 
will find that you have made your treasure upon earth, 
and will have to leave your heart with it behind you ? 
Or are you one who has been trying to earn your own 
way to Heaven — toiling to make up with Heaven a long 
account of debtor and creditor ; and have you discover- 
ed that you have all this time been heaping an insup- 
portable burden upon your back ; that the law is spirit- 
ual, but that you are carnal, sold under sin? 

Just consider how the apostle discovered this burden 
in himself. ■- I kse»J? that in me, that is, in my Jlesh % 
dwelleth no good thing ; for, to will, is present with me ; 
but how to perform that which is good, I find not. I 
find a law, that when I would do good, evil is present 
with me." " I delight in the law of God after the in- 
ward man, but I see another law in my members, war- 
ring against the law of my mind, and bringing "me into 
captivity to the law of sin which is in my members." 
Then he exclaims, " O wretched man that I am ! who 
shall deliver me from the body of this death 1" He felt 
the burden hanging heavy upon his soul : during all this 
time he had been engaged, as it were, in putting it into 



190 SERMON V. 

the balances, and weighing it ; and he found it so aw- 
fully oppressive, that he cries out, " O wretched man 
that I am ! who shall deliver me from this burden of 
sin V* 

And do you feel nothing like this in your own heart I 
Do you find no law of God, and no law of sin ? A law 
of God, setting before you what he loves ; and a law 
of sin, leading you to say and do what he hates ? Nay, 
how often have you yourself admitted that your con- 
science is an awful burden, by your attempts to shake 
it off; to get rid of its load, to invent some contrivance 
for lessening its weight ; leaning your burden against a 
shattered wall, which one day or other will give way, 
and your burden bear you down to the ground. How 
often are you fond of throwing in false weights, for the 
purpose of deceiving yourself as to the real state of 
your conscience. 

But there is one remarkable consideration that is 
fully sufficient of itself to convince us that we have a 
load, and a very heavy one, hanging upon our hearts 
and our consciences : it is simply this, — our unwilling- 
ness to examine them. There is not one of us who 
does not feel it to be a loathsome, a disgusting, a most 
painful, and a most humiliating task. Only observe 
with what eagerness we avoid it ; how many excuses 
we make in order that we may escape an acquaint- 
ance with our own hearts and an inquiry into our 
own consciences. Now this jg « positive proof that 
we know full well the inquiry would turn against us. 
It is the testimony of our hearts against them- 
selves at the very outset. Why should you be afraid 
of examining yourself, if you did not know well 
that you would find a heavy burden within ? Just con- 
sider what a delightful occupation would self-examina- 
tion become if we had any reason to suppose that our 
hearts would make a favourable report 1 Every man 
loves to hear his own praises, if he believes them to be 
true. O if we had any idea that our own heart would 
praise us, there would not be a more delightful task 
upon eaith than that of examining ourselves. How 



SERMON Y. 191 

eagerly should we steal away to our closets and our Bi- 
bles if we thought that we should come away satisfied 
with ourselves, approving ourselves, assured that all was 
safe within ! How happy should you be in weighing 
your heart if you thought you should find it really a 
light and an easy one ! How happy should you feel in 
looking at it over and over, and again and again, if you 
thought you should find it good, and pure, and holy ! 
What a luxury would it be to start a new virtue at every 
step of our inquiry, to indulge in the contemplation of 
our own goodness, and the applause of our own con- 
sciences ; and what a beautiful thing would the Bible 
appear to us if we thought that at every page we turn- 
ed we read our own salvation ! O then, what must be 
the real state of the case, when we would study any 
thing rather than the book of God, and would plunge 
into any society rather than the company of our own 
hearts ! Is it not a proof that, in the one, we know we 
should find the evidence of our guilt ; and, in the other, 
the registry of our condemnation ? This plain and 
simple fact, that we would do any thing rather than ex- 
amine our own hearts, is a sufficient evidence of the 
corruption of our nature; — we are afraid to look at it; 
a sufficient ' proof of the heavy burden within; — we 
are afraid to weigh it. 

So that you perceive, that when God invites only 
those that labour and are heavy-laden, he does not call 
upon you to invent any new kind of burden or sorrow 
for yourself, but merely to know and feel your real state. 
Nothing can be fairer : he just requires that you should 
be fully sensible of the state in which you are, before 
he condescends to save you from it ; that you should 
feel your burden, before he condescends to remove it. 
Just conceive what a mockery it would be to talk to a 
man of comforting him for sorrows that he never felt, 
and of relieving him from a burden that he never en- 
dured ! This is plain common-sense : may our common- 
sense never rise to testify against us at the day of judg- 
ment ! 



192 SERMON V. 

Nay more, our very pleasures are a burden to us — 
for how many of them are the causes of pain, of sor- 
row, of remorse ! Upon how many of them do we look 
back with disgust, after the enjoyment of them has 
ceased ! And then, last of all, are they not bounded 
by death ? This is the gulf in which they are all swal- 
lowed up. So that the more of these pleasures we shall 
have enjoyed, the more we shall have set our affections 
upon them ; the greater will be our unwillingness to 
part with them ; the greater will be the burden we 
have been heaping upon our death-beds. 

We have now considered to whom this invitation is 
made : it is to those that labour and are heavy-laden. 
Who is there that does not feel he is included in the in- 
vitation 1 The next thing to be considered is, how it 
is to be accepted 1 — " Come unto me." Though all 
these promises are made to those who are heavy-laden, 
it is that they may come : if they come not, all is lost ! 

It is plain, then, that the first step in coming to him 
must be a full and perfect reliance upon his power and 
his willingness to give you rest : and who can doubt 
his power — Ms power, who is the Son of God ? who 
first gained the victory over the grave himself, to shew 
that death should have no dominion over those whom 
he protected ! 

And who can doubt his willingness to save ? Who, 
that looks for one moment at the cross, can dare to 
doubt it 1 O ! if we were but half as willing to be 
saved as he is to save us, which of us would not depart 
this day redeemed 1 Only observe how he who makes 
the promises, beseeches, entreats, implores you to come 
to him. O ! if we were half as earnest in our prayers 
to him as he is in his prayers to us, which of us would 
not this day find rest unto his soul 1 

But though perfect is the first step that leads to this 
rest, — recollect, it is but the first; it must be immedi- 
ately followed up by others. For the next verse imme- 
diately proceeds : " Take my yoke upon you, and learn 
of me ; for I am meek and lowly of heart." Now, to 



SERMON V. 



193 



take a person's yoke upon you is to become his servant : 
so that the meaning is, you must take me for your mas- 
ter, and learn of me. You must be willing to take off 
that heavy burden, the yoke of sin, the yoke of the 
world, and allow him to put Ms in its place. You 
must fling down at his feet your pride, your drunken- 
ness, your impurity, your avarice, your worldly minded- 
ness. You will make no bargains with him for keep- 
ing one sin, and letting another go : this would be 
mere traffic ; not taking him for your master : it would 
be endeavouring to serve two masters. 

The only way of being sure that you are coming to 
Christ is, — are you coming all to him ? Are you keep- 
ing any sin to yourself 1 Are you keeping your fa- 
vourite sin ? This is the shortest and the only sure 
trial. If you are not surrendering that, be assured you 
are attempting to serve two masters, — Christ and that 
favourite sin, whatever it may be. The only way of 
trying yourself is this : — Do you allow Christ to obtain 
a mastery over all your vices ? Do you make him the 
fountain of all your virtues ] Do you avoid all evil for 
his sake 1 And, above all, is he the bright example 
that you follow 1 Do you take some poor human 
standard of excellence, and put that in the place of 
Christ ? Or do you look to him, not only for salvation, 
but for example 1 Is his lowly and meek humility, his 
pure and holy conversation, his active and benevolent 
charity, his mild and gentle patience, his fervent and 
constant piety, his spirit of mercy and forgiveness, — 
are these your pattern of perfection to which you seek 
to be conformed 1 

Now the last thing to be considered is, the rest which 
he bestows ; — in what does it consist, and how does he 
bestow it 1 The two following verses contain a full ex- 
planation : " Take my yoke upon you, and learn of 
me." You perceive it is in the exchange of yokes and 
burdens that this rest consists ; — in taking off the un- 
easv yoke and the heavy burden, and taking in its 

17 



194 



SERMON V. 



place Christ's easy yoke and light burden : " Take my 
yoke." 

Now, what is Christ's yoke 1 " He that loveth me 
keepeth my commandments :" and we are told by the 
same apostle, " His commandment is not grievous ;" 
and the reason is, because we keep his commandments 
from a principle of love. It is not that we wear his 
yoke and take his burden in order, like a hireling or a 
slave, to earn our own rest and salvation, but it is the 
free service of warm, and earnest, and humble grati- 
tude ; a service of love that, after doing all, makes us 
willing to exclaim, " We are unprofitable servants !" 
It is because we serve one who is meek and lowly of 
heart, anxious to teach us by the influence of his Spirit 
how to find his yoke easy and his burden light ; how 
to find it delightful to do the will of his Father which 
is in Heaven, and thus to resemble our divine Master ; 
so that, instead of being servants and slaves, we be- 
come the friends and the brethren of our Master, and 
find his service perfect freedom : our obedience is not 
the means of our procuring our rest, but is the rest it- 
self 

The blessed Saviour always administers to those who 
come to him, with heart and soul, both the means of 
fulfilling his will and of finding it sweet, easy, and de- 
lightful. He teaches us and enables us to do it from 
humble love and earnest gratitude ; to look to him for 
fresh supplies of spiritual strength ; and, whenever we 
are weary and faint by the w y, to turn aside to him, 
where he stands by the fountain of living waters and 
gives freely to all that are athirst ; and then wit a fresh 
strength we raise our light burden, and go on our way 
rejoicing. It is true men choose to consider Christ as 
a hard task-master, and his blessed service as gloomy 
and severe : but to these men there are two very short 
answers : first, that it is only to those that labour and 
are heavy-laden that this is addressed, — to those who 
feel an insupportable load upon their souls and their 
consciences ; and to them the exchange is indeed de- 



SERMON V. 



195 



lightful : but if these men feel themselves perfectly at 
their ease, if they are happy in their present state, — 
they are very welcome to take their own ease. Second- 
ly, that the service of Christ always proceeds from a 
motive of earnest and humble gratitude, or it is no ser- 
vice at all. It is not so many separate and detached 
acts of service ; but it comes warm and entire from a 
holy and sacred affection that makes it a service of 
perfect freedom. 



SERMON VI. 



Matthew, xi. 12. 

They that be whole need not a physician, but they that 

are sick. 

We may remember that this was the answer of 
Christ to the Pharisees when they reproached him with 
admitting sinners into his society ; and it would, there- 
fore, at first appear that they did not conceive they 
were sinners themselves when they ventured to bring 
such an accusation against him. And yet this seems 
hardly possible : blind and self-righteous as they were, 
we can scarcely imagine that any man could obtain 
such a victory over his conscience, or bring the art of 
self-deception to such perfection, as to fancy that he 
had never sinned ! 

Now to us it must appear one of the strangest things 
in the world how any man could entertain the least 
doubt upon the subject. If a man were to tell us that 
he was not a sinner, we would consider it a sign — not 
of innocence, but of derangement. God knows ! ma- 
ny a man seems to pass through life as if he were 
walking in his sleep ; and sin and righteousness appear 
nearly alike to him : he seldom opens his eyes to see 
things as they really are ; but still it is impossible to 
suppose that he does not often encounter a shock that 
bewilders and alarms him, and stumble upon some sin 
that rouses him to a sense of guilt. Really it seems 
inconceivable that any man possesses the art of self-de- 



SERMON Vt. W 

ception to so ruinous a degree. Our Saviour's answer 
may lead to the true state of the case : " They that be 
whole need not a physician, but they that are sick." — 
They did not perceive that sin was a disease. They 
knew, indeed, that they had been guilty of several gen- 
tle offences, a sin now and then ; but they had not 
learned that it was a disorder seated in their very con- 
stitution. This seems to have been the fatal error of 
the Pharisees ; the tremendous mistake that blinded 
their eyes, so that they saw not, and stopped their ears, 
that they heard not. The fact is, if they had regarded 
the soul as they did the body, — if they had bat reason- 
ed in the one case as in the other, it is astonishing 
what new and alarming views would have arisen upon 
the minds of these men, and how many of them we 
should have found taking the lowest seat with him who 
ate and drank with publicans and sinners, and gather- 
ing up the crumbs that fell from the table ! 

If any one of us were now suddenly informed by a 
physician that a deadly malady was at this instant prey- 
ing upon his vitals, that his blood was poisoned, and 
his health undermined, and his constitution falling 
asunder, — he would, doubtless, return to his house in 
no very comfortable state of mind ; he would throw 
himself upon his bed, and feed upon the gloomy 
thoughts of approaching dissolution ; would begin, per- 
haps, to make his will, and call his friends about him 
to apprise them that he was soon to bid them farewell ; 
and, if he felt a joint ache, and his pulse begin to beat 
faster or slower, or if he looked in the glass and saw 
his cheek turning pale, and his lip becoming livid, and 
his eye growing dim, — he would say ; Alas ! he told 
me nothing but the truth ! and this is that fearful dis- 
ease that is to bring me to my grave ! And then how 
would all the little symptoms be noted and remembered; 
how would the nature and the seat of the disease be 
studied and examined ; and if a physician were to drop 
a hint that the disorder was within the reach of his 
skill, or if there was a whisper through the family that 

17* 



198 



SERMON VI. 



something could be done, and that hope was not yet to 
be renounced — the very news would be a kind of health 
to you, and your faded and pallid countenance would 
brighten with anticipated freshness and renovation ! — 
Now, if a man were really convinced that such a dis- 
ease as this had taken possession of his eternal soul, 
what can we suppose would be his sensations ! If a 
distant hint, if an indistinct murmur were breathed that 
there was something wrong about it ; — an eternal thing 
with something wrong about it ! to think that that liv- 
ing spirit within us, by which we can hold communion 
with the unseen world and the Father of Spirits, and 
which is destined to wander through eternity, is indis- 
posed and out of order ! — what alarm, what jealousy of 
inquiry should it excite ? what earnest investigation of 
symptoms ; what anxious search into the nature of the 
complaint and the possibility of a cure ? And yet it is 
astonishing with what perfect composure a man not 
only can hear the voice of Almighty God warning him, 
but can acknowledge that there is no health in him, 
and yet scarcely think it a subject worth his inquiry ! 

Really it is pitiable and melancholy to hear with 
what accuracy a sick man will describe all the marks 
and features of his disorder ; how every passing pain, 
every change, every symptom, and every fluctuation of 
health and strength is treasured up, and amplified, and 
discussed. What a physician does the sick man be- 
come in his own case ! — nay, with what seeming plea- 
sure does he dwell upon every circumstance ! with 
what fond and longing eloquence he can expatiate up- 
on his pangs and his sufferings, as if he loved them be- 
cause they are his own ! But if you inquire into the 
health of his eternal soul, its sicknesses, its symptoms, 
its peculiar constitution, its signs of life and death ; all 
dumb, all languid, all flat and unprofitable ! Before 
we go farther ; is not this a sufficient proof that all is 
wrong, — that the spirit within him has been left to take 
care of itself, while the heap of dust to which it is at- 
tached has excited such an interest that every grain of 



SERMON VI. 199 

it seems to have been weighed and counted ? O that 
it would force itself upon our senses, and burst itself 
upon our notice ! O that this mysterious stranger with- 
in us could appear to us in some palpable shape, that 
we might inspect, and handle, and examine it ; — that 
we might be able to feel the beating of its pulse, and 
watch the changes of its complexion ; — that we might 
know when it looked pale, and sickly, and death-like, 
and when it wore the fresh and rosy hue of health ! — 
But it hides itself from my view, — it muffles itself from 
my observation ; and though I can amuse myself with 
looking at the perishable body in which it is contained 
through a microscope, and studying its very infirmities 
with a fond aud melancholy delight, I do not feel a 
sufficient interest in the immortal and unseen spirit 
within to follow it into its hiding-places, and pursue it 
into its recesses. If we went no farther, this is enough 
to prove that there is some fatal disease within — that 
we do not seem to care for the inquiry. 

But, in the next place, when the body is concerned 
we seldom find that we mistake a symptom for the dis- 
ease. Only observe with what scrutinising ingenuity 
a man will penetrate into the hiding-places in his con- 
stitution to discover the root and ground of some dis- 
order that has shewn itself in some external sign ! — 
And should not the blind Pharisees have known, even 
of themselves, that it is from within, — " out of the 
hearts of men proceed evil thoughts, adulteries, forni- 
cations, murders, thefts, covetousness, deceit, lasciv- 
iousness ;" that all these evil things come from within, 
and " it is out of the abundance of the heart the mouth 
speaketh.". These, sins as they are, these, — against 
which the great God has registered his wrath, and for 
all which we shall be brought into judgment, — these 
are, after all, signs and symptoms of something worse 
within. Our evil words and our evil deeds are only 
overflowings of the soul, and do not shew the depth of 
the fountain from which they proceed. It has, indeed, 
its ebbs and its flows, like those diseases that shew 



200 



SERMON VI. 



themselves at some periods more than at others ; but 
we should make a sad error if we mistook the signs of 
a complaint for the complaint itself. It is often by a 
slight variation of the pulse, — a pain, trifling in itself, 
a change in the habit or aspect, that would hardly be 
observed unless narrowly examined and inspected, that 
a physician detects a malady which is making serious 
and frightful inroads upon the constitution. 

We may at once convince ourselves of this by ima- 
gining ourselves thrown into a thousand situations in 
which we have seen others involved, and from which 
we have been preserved we know not how ; and in 
which sins, that have only shewn themselves by faint 
and transient flashes, would have burst into a blaze, and 
have raged with the fury of a conflagration. Awful 
and tremendous truth ! that our sins, while they are 
the signs, are not the measures of the sin within ; and 
while they are terrible proofs that it exists, still leave us 
to discover its height and its depth, its length and 
breadth ; — they may graduate its tides and fluctuations f 
but they leave its depths unfathomed, and its shores un- 
explored. But if some powerful conjuncture of at- 
tractions should operate, we know not what tempests 
are lurking in its bosom, and ready to burst forth. 
Then, as there are different kinds of bodily, so there 
are of spiritual disorders. You will see some of an 
ardent and fiery constitution, whose complaint will shew 
itself by violent signs that cannot be mistaken ; and 
they prove that sin and death are rioting within them, 
and withering their eternal health, by an ostentation of 
their depravity, by drunkenness or debauchery, or by 
blasphemy, riot, or revenge. These men have the signs 
of a raging fever, and they often proceed to that degree 
of derangement and delirium that they actually forget 
the difference between health and sickness, and fancy 
that all is sefe at the moment they have attained the 
height of their disorder ! 

But there are others of a milder temperament, where 
the signs are more silent and more treacherous ; where 



SERMON VI. 



201 



the eye is bright and the countenance is florid, and the 
frame receives no shock, and the nerves remain compo- 
sed, and the spirits tranquil ; — and yet death is feeding 
upon the vitals ! These are the men whose walk in life 
is generally decent and respectable ; but the heart and 
the affections are fixed on perishable objects; — whose 
care, v/hose hopes, and whose dear delight, are things 
visible, that shall pass away ; — souls that feed on ashes, 
and declare their kindred with the worm that perisheth 
by feeding upon perishable food, — whose minds repre- 
sent the tombs to which they are approaching, — whited 
sepulchres, that indeed are beautiful outward, but if 
you look within, you find nothing but death ! These 
persons seem to descend into the grave with a fatal 
gentleness that causes no shock, to awake them ; they 
waste away by a lingering consumption, and feel not 
that they are dwindling, and dwindling, into ruin ; and 
they know not that " where thy treasure is, there will 
thy heart be also ;" and that, therefore, if it be not set 
upon God, and Heaven, and immortal things, thy eter- 
nal soul is wasting into destruction, and the worms are 
underneath thee, and cover thee ! 
~ There are numberless varieties of spiritual com- 
plaints; perhaps equal in number to those of the body, 
which are most emphatically called in Scripture, " the 
plagues of men's hearts." 

But now observe the various excuses we attempt to 
make, the thousand ways in which we endeavour to de- 
ceive ourselves with respect to the disease of the eter- 
nal soul within us ; and then observe how vain — how 
silly would these appear if they were applied to the body. 
How often will a man make the excuse that he was born 
with the seeds of this corruption, and plead this as a 
reason for cherishing and encouraging it, or at least 
for neglecting it and allowing it to work its own way ? 
Now what should we think of a man who attempted to 
quiet our fears, when we were labouring under a cruel 
bodily complaint, by telling us that it is in the family, 



202 



SERMON VI. 



and we inherit it from our ancestors ? Did it ever save 
any man's life yet ? 

Bat again ; there are men who will mix in that socie- 
ty, and advance with the utmost security into those sit- 
uations, where impurity, sensuality, and a worldly and 
carnal frame of mind are encouraged, and where affec- 
tions are more and more set upon earthly pleasures and 
earthly enjoyments, — and yet they will declare that no 
evil consequences can arise, and that they felt no spirit- 
ual disadvantage from the indulgence. 

Now what should we think of a man who should tell 
us, if an infectious complaint were raging around us, 
that we might venture securely into the midst of the 
contagion, and frequent those houses where it prevailed? 
and who should tell us, that if we did not actually feel 
the infection, or the poison, while it was mixing with 
our blood and entering into our veins, we might consid- 
er ourselves safe, and conclude that the effect might 
not afterwards break forth and carry us into our graves? 

And yet it is thus that we often attempt to deceive our- 
selves both with respect to the existence, the nature, the 
danger, and the effects of our spiritual diseases; although, 
any man that reasoned, thought, and acted in the same 
way, with respect to the body, w r ould be considered to have 
forfeited his claim to the attribute of reason, and to 
have renounced his common sense. And then, when 
one thinks what may be the death of an eternal spirit, 
— what new, what fearful, what unknown miseries it 
has to undergo ! what it must be to moulder and waste 
through all eternity ! we cannot dwell upon it — it is too 
much ! 

But there is a gracious Physician, who comes to bind 
up the broken-hearted ; — the good Samaritan, that 
stands by the way-side, to pour wine and oil into our 
wounds, to minister to our sicknesses, and to heal our 
infirmities. All those who feel the cruel breach that 
sin has made in their health, and who are sensible that 
they cannot recover themselves, may come to him — and 
he will assuredly relieve them. 



SERMON VI. 203 

Now, when an earthly physician is called in, what is 
the first thing required of the patient ? A perfect reli- 
ance upon the skill and the good-will of the physician. 
What should we think of that patient who felt a disease 
rioting in his vitals, and should begin to analyse the 
medicines that were administered, and to demand an 
account of the particular mode in which they were to 
effect his cure 1 Should not the physician be obliged to 
give him all the information he himself possessed before 
he could explain it 1 And is it much that the Lord Je- 
sus Christ should demand from us that faith which we 
must necessarily place in a human being, or be content 
to lie down and perish ? 

Just consider how many silly expedients a sick man 
will try where there is the most distant hope of recove- 
ry ; and then say, whether you will not trust the all- 
powerful, the all-wise, the all-gracious Being, who bore 
all the sicknesses and infirmities of your bodily nature 
— all for your sake, and submitted to the agonies of 
death to deliver you from hopeless ruin? 

Be assured that, if you really feel the burden of your 
disease, you will not hesitate a moment. Come to him 
with earnest, humble prayer — with a heart at once pen- 
etrated with a sense of its corruptions and a love of the 
Divine Being who offers to pardon and to purify — and as- 
suredly he will not refuse ; for he tells us specially — that 
he came not for those that are whole, but those that are 
sick ; and this he himself explains in the following 
verse ; — " I came not to call the righteous, but sinners, 
to repentance." But here he also shews us the nature 
of the cure ; he came to call them to repentance, to a 
change of mind. 

It must be, of course, by some change in the inner 
man that a radical disease must be exterminated from 
the constitution. It seems as if it were actually out of 
the nature of things that it should be otherwise. When 
the good and benevolent Being vouchsafed to entreat 
his wayward and rebellious people to deliver their own 
soul, he says, " Make you a new heart ; for why will 



204 SERMON VI. 

you die, O house of Israel?" as if death were the sure 
and inevitable consequence of their old state, from 
which it was inconsistent with the natural course of 
things that they could be saved except by making a new 
heart and a right spirit within them. But this he is 
willing to do if we come earnestly and humbly to look 
for it ; for he declares, — " I will give my Holy Spirit to 
them that ask it ;" and, " he that spared not his own 
Son, how shall he not also, with him, freely give us all 
things !" 

But we must allow him to choose his own way. It is 
generally by producing new habits and tempers of mind 
— new desires and affections, which gain strength by 
degrees, that he effects our cure. We have seen but 
few bodily cures effected by any sudden or instantane- 
ous power ; and they were generally most subject to 
relapse. 

The good and benign Physician consults our weak- 
ness and our nature at the very time that he undertakes 
to overcome them. How is the cure to be conducted, 
from its weak beginning, to health and maturity 1 Now, 
how would an earthly physician answer this question, 
proposed with respect to a bodily complaint 1 He would 
say, " by exercise." Just so the new principle implant- 
ed within us, — the heavenly tempers and exalted affec- 
tions, — the delight in God and things invisible, that is 
the dawn of health to the sick man, is to be cherished 
and invigorated by a constant converse with holy things, 
and a constant energy in the performance of every duty. 
Consider how the great Physician was employed, when 
he was upbraided by the haughty Pharisee, and when 
he declared that he was engaged in the very work of 
healing those who are spiritually sick, and calling sin- 
ners to repentance : he was eating and drinking with 
the sinners ; he was engaged in familiar, yet holy con- 
versation with them ; and what though he is now far 
above, out of the range of mortal sight ; though he is 
not now employed in working those bodily cures which 
were faint representations of the renovation of a ruined 



SERMON VI. 



205 



soul ; although he now no longer walks in our streets, 
letting his blessed shadow fall upon our infirmities as 
he passes along, — yet his Word and his Spirit are still 
with us — the Spirit which he sent as his substitute, 
which is to aid and invigorate our prayers ; and the 
Word that is a substitute for that divine conversation, 
by which he spoke health to the sinner's soul, while he 
sat at meat with them. And that Word is wonderfully 
adapted to all varieties of constitutions, and the several 
degrees of spiritual health they may have attained ; for 
c< all Scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is 
profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for 
instruction in righteousness, that the man of God may 
fee perfect, thoroughly furnished unto all good works." 

18 



SERMON VII. 



1 Corinthians, vi. 20, 
Ye are bought with a price. 

The use that St. Paul makes of these words is as re- 
markable as the words themselves, Some time after he 
had left the Corinthians, he was informed that many of 
them, while they still professed to be Christians, had 
fallen away from the purity of the Gospel which he had 
preached. They no longer trembled, when the man 
was gone who used to reason among them "of right- 
eousness, temperance, and judgment to come," They 
relapsed into former habits with an appetite that seemed 
to have been sharpened and increased by the self-de- 
nial to which they had for a time submitted ; and the 
evil spirit, which had gone out for a season, said, " I 
will return to my house whence I came out ; and he 
took other spirits more wicked than himself, and went 
in, and dwelt there : and the last state of many of those 
men was worse than the first," St, Paul remarks, that 
many vices, such as extortions, strife, envy, and re- 
venge, were gaining fearful ground upon them ; many 
of them indulged in gluttony, in drunkenness, in de- 
bauchery, in adultery, to an extent that had been before 
unknown. They prostituted their bodies to intempe- 
rance, and their immortal souls to covetousness, malig- 
nity, and corruption. 

This was cruel and bitter intelligence to such a man 



SERMON VII. 



207 



as Pau^— one, whose heart and soul were wrapped up 
in the success of his ministry, — who seemed to rejoice 
with the joy of ten thousand angels over one sinner that 
repented, and mourned like one heart-broken if one 
soul, that appeared to have been won from sin, had fall- 
en away from its immortality. He accordingly writes 
to them a letter, the most solemn and the most tender 
that can well be conceived, in language at once the 
most dignified and affectionate ; and he here brings 
down the great argument of the Gospel upon them with 
all its weight. 

Perhaps we shall understand it better if we first con- 
sider those which are generally used in such cases. 

If a prudent man of the world, who had little re- 
spect for religion, but a high sense of what is called 
morality, had been sent to preach to these men, what 
arguments do we conceive he would have employed ? 
He would probably have said ; u The excesses in 
which you indulge will ruin your health, will shorten 
your days, will rack your body with pain and disease, 
will enfeeble your understanding, rendering it poor, un- 
steady, and effeminate, unable to follow any regular, 
manly, and honourable occupation in life ; you will lose 
both your own respect, and the respect of the world ; 
and if you cherish ill-will, malice, and envy, it will de- 
stroy your peace of mind, and keep you at variance 
with your fellow-creatures, with whom you should live 
in friendship and tranquillity. n And he would say very 
right : these arguments are in general very true ; but, 
alas ! they are seldom found to avail ; and when they do, 
suppose the object gained, their hearts relieved, their 
lives lengthened, their success in the pursuit of afflu- 
ence secured, their reputation standing fair in the eye 
of all the world j there is yet something behind ; there 
is a death, and there is a judgment ; and have they 
looked to them 1 have they prepared for them? Veri- 
ly they have had their reward, — the reward they look- 
ed for, — health, wealth, long life, and reputation. What 
claim have they to any thing farther 1 



208 



SERMON VII. 



But suppose a man who possesses a higher sense of 
religion, but who forgets to look for it in his Bible, — 
who recollects that there is to be a state of rewards 
and punishments, but who forgets that it is only through 
a blessed Mediator that we can hope for escape from 
the one, and for the attainment of the other, — suppose 
such a one sent to reform these profligates, what might 
he say 1 He would probably say, ' The course in 
which you are proceeding is offensive to Almighty God, 
and will draw down his everlasting vengeance and in- 
dignation upon your heads ; but, change your course, 
and reform, and you will then deserve his forgiveness, 
his favour, and his blessing.' Alas ! this argument 
would, it is to be feared, have less chance of succeed- 
ing than the former ; for while it places the objects to 
be attained at a greater distance, it leaves their attain- 
ment much more uncertain ; for, in the first place, how 
could they know whether the God of holiness would 
pardon past enormities for the sake of future obedi- 
ence 1 Suppose they had lived a life of righteousness to 
the very moment of which we are speaking, would they 
not be obliged 'to continue it to the end 1 How then 
can they know whether future obedience may atone 
for past transgressions ? 

But, in the next place, suppose all past sins cancel- 
led, to what are they to look forward 1 One might say, 
' I know not what kind of righteousness or what de- 
gree of righteousness God requires. If he requires a 
life of unsinning obedience, I am lost fcr ever ; if not, 
I know not what vices I must give up, or what I may 
still keep without forfeiting his favour. I have no 
reason to say where he will draw the line : if he can en- 
dure sin at all, without punishing il, he may pardon me 
in my present state, without any change whatever.' 

But what was the argument of Paul, the Christian 
apostle, the minister of the Gospel 1 " Ye are not 
your own : ye are bought with a price." You are 
bought and sold, body and soul : you are no longer 
your own property. Now the conclusion that he im- 



SERMON V1U 



20<J 



Mediately draws, is, " Therefore glorify God in your 
body, and in your spirit, which are God's." I do not 
call upon you to renounce your evil ways, because you 
think it may conduce to your own health and conve- 
nience — to your own satisfaction and gratification here 
— to your success in life, and to the establishment of a 
fair reputation ; I should then acknowledge you to be 
your own property, to belong to yourselves : nor do I 
summon you to repentance because you are able to 
atone for your past transgressions, and to make your 
own peace with God ; this would look as if I still ac- 
knowledged you to belong to yourselves, and to be your 
own property, and that you could make a bargain with 
Heaven, — that you could buy off a vice with a virtue 
and a sin by some fit of obedience : but I challenge 
you as the property of Jesus Christ, which he has pur- 
chased to himself for ever and ever, that you surrender 
yourself into his service, and glorify him as your Mas- 
ter, your Saviour, and your Redeemer. 

This is the argument of God himself to every one 
amongst us, to turn from the sins of his own heart and 
his own life ; and it should be as omnipotent as the 
God from whom it proceeds : — " Ye are bought with a 
price." From what are we bought 1 From these very 
sins, and the punishment they would draw down upon 
our souls. Here is every motive that can actuate a ra- 
tional being : here there is no doubt of the dreadful 
aspect which our sins wear in the sight of the Supreme 
Being ; for they required a terrible price to release us 
from them — nothing less than the blood of God ; and 
here is no doubt of love and mercy and forgiveness — 
for the price is paid. O then, as you would not disap- 
point the good and gracious being in all that he has 
done for you ; as you would not wish that that price 
were paid for you in vain, acknowledge yourself his 
purchased servant, and glorify him in the body and in 
the spirit that he has bought ! You must become his 
property. But you will say, * Behold, are not all things 
his ? Are not heaven and earth, the sea, and all their 

18* 



210 SERMON VII. 

inhabitants, — the firmament, the vast expanse of the 
universe, and all that it contains, his property V Yes ; 
they are indeed all his : — but there was one loved and 
favoured being among them all, whom he called pecu- 
liarly his own. In our Father's house there were in- 
deed many hired servants ; but among all his creatures 
there was one Son ; for he said, " Let us make man in 
our own image :" and he formed him for a representa- 
tive of himself. He was the property of God, as a child 
is the property of his father. His thoughts belonged to 
God ; for there was not one which he wished to con- 
ceal from him : they loved to dwell upon the glori- 
ous attributes of his Father, and admire the wonders of 
his power and of his goodness. No foul and corrupt 
desires, no sordid wishes interrupted the purity and 
brightness of his soul ; no angry, envious, or revenge- 
ful passion disturbed its deep and beautiful tranquillity. 
The spirit of man was then clearness and sunshine ; 
not a storm to ruffle, not a cloud to obscure it ; and it 
was transparent to the eye of Him in whose sight the 
sins that seem but specks and atoms to our view appear 
enlarged to a fearful size. The language of his lips 
belonged to God ; for " out of the abundance of the 
heart the mouth speaketh :" and then the heart abound- 
ed with all good and holy thoughts, and therefore no 
foul or bitter language issued from such a fountain, but 
it overflowed at his lips in praise or thanksgiving. The 
deeds of his hands and the course of his life belonged 
to God ; for his body was the servant of his soul, and 
was the glorious instrument by which he carried the 
wishes of a good and benevolent heart into execution. 
" In his law did he exercise himself day and night," 
and he " glorified God in his body and his spirit." If 
he was in subjection to God, he was yet in bondage to 
no other being in the universe ; and His yoke was easy, 
and His burden light. 

What need is there to dwell upon the miserable 
change 1 Which of us sees any thing like his ow 
character in that which we have been considering 



SERMON VII. 211 

Or which of us, after reflecting for a moment upon 
what man was, and ought to be, can look upon himself, 
without smiting upon his breast, and saying, " God be 
merciful to me a sinner !" 

Who is the Lord and Master of our body and our 
spirit, and whom do we glorify with them ? Whom do 
we follow and obey, and whose will have we most fre- 
quently and generally consulted in our conduct through 
life ? To whom do our thoughts belong ? Upon what 
objects do they delight to repose, and how many of 
them would you wish to conceal from the pure and 
everlasting gaze of your Creator ? How often would 
you wish that his eye had been closed upon you, and 
that he could not read the secret movements of your 
heart ? Are they not often such as you would be 
ashamed to disclose even to a poor mortal like yourself? 
And yet there will be a day when they will be made 
known, when the secrets of all hearts will be revealed. 

To whom does your conversation belong 1 Upon 
what subjects do you most delight to speak 1 Does the 
name of God occur only to be blasphemed ; or, if it 
ever rudely intrudes into your conversation, is it not 
banished like an unwelcome visiter that interrupts 
your enjoyments 1 How often would you wish Heaven 
deaf to your voice, and that the ears of the Almighty 
were closed to the words of your mouth 1 And yet 
there will be a day when every wanton, blasphemous, 
and unholy and uncharitable expression will be read 
aloud : " For every idle word that men shall speak, 
they shall give an account thereof in the day of judg- 
ment." 

To whom do your actions belong 1 Of all that you 
have done, and of all your pursuits in life, how many 
have you done or undertaken for the purpose of glori- 
fying Almighty God ; and how many to glorify your- 
self, your own pride, your own covetousness, your 
own vanity, your own malice, your own sensuality, 
and the opinion of the world? And yet, "for all 
these things God will bring thee into judgment." 



212 SERMON VII. 

Ask yourselves solemnly the question, whom have 
you served ? Have we not sought to do our own 
will, and not the will of him who made us ? The conse- 
quence is, that instead of being free, we have fallen 
into bondage to our own passions and lusts, and have 
been the sport of every temptation of the world, and 
the victim of that dreadful being who is the author and 
promoter of all sin and all misery. When we broke 
the bonds that united us to our Creator, every gust of 
passion, every whisper of the world^ and every sugges- 
tion of the devil, obtained dominion over us ; and what 
is the consequence 1 — " Know ye not, that to whom ye 
render yourselves servants to obey, his servants ye are 
to whom ye obey 1 Whether of sin, unto death ; or of 
obedience, unto righteousness V If the Lord of your 
soul, and the master whom you serve, whom you have 
chiefly and most frequently consulted, be not God, re- 
collect the wages of such obedience is death ; and 
which of us has not been in such bondage to corruption, 
and has not earned and purchased to himself the awful 
reward 1 But, blessed for ever be that God who still 
looked for the sons that he had lost, for the flock that 
had wandered, and who paid the rafisom that once 
more set us free to oUr salvation, we have been bought 
with agony and bloody sweat ; with tears and groans ; 
with writhings of the body, and woundings of the 
spirit; with the torture of the cross, and the life of 
God ; amidst darkness and fearful signs, and the rend- 
ing of the rocks, and the bursting of the tombs. All 
that the frame and the spirit of man could endure, was 
suffered for us ; and all that the love and mercy of God 
could give, was lavished upon our salvation. 

Such is the value that God has set upon our heads ; 
such is the price by which he purchases us back, and 
makes us his own sons and his family for ever : and it 
is therefore that he calls upon us to glorify him in that 
body and that spirit, which he has thus made his own 
by all the claims both of creation and redemption. 
For, as St. Paul in another place explains it, If Christ 



SERMON VII. 213 

died for us, then were we all dead ; and he died for all, 
that they which live should not henceforth live unto 
themselves, but unto him who died for them, and rose 
again." 

If you reject this sacrifice, then no price has been 
paid for you, or it has been paid in vain ; you do not 
acknowledge it; you must save yourself, without hoping 
that one single drop of your Redeemer's blood shall fall 
upon your soul, to render it fit to stand before the holi- 
ness of God. If your heart sinks, and your soul shud- 
ders at such a thought, then recollect, that if Christ 
died for you, then were you dead, — dead in trespasses 
and sins, — in bondage to corruption, and the servant of 
those masters whose wages is death ; and recollect that 
the very purpose for which he died, and without which 
you disappoint the glorious salvation that he has wrought 
for you, is, " that henceforth you should not live unto 
yourselves, but unto him who died for you and rose 
again." We must die with him if we hope to live with 
him ; we must enter into his service, and become his 
disciples by glorifying him in the body and the spirit^ 
which he has redeemed ; and then can we look with 
pure and lowly hope for the forgiveness of our past 
wanderings, and of the numberless transgressions of 
which we are guilty, even after we have surrendered 
ourselves to his good guidance : then can we look for 
support in the thousand falterings which we shall make 
in our journey, when we faintly attempt to tread in his 
gracious and sainted footsteps. 

He has purchased your thoughts ; for he has offered 
to make you the temple of his Holy Spirit, who will 
purify you from sin, and fill you with righteousness and 
true holiness, and who will give you strength in all your 
trials, and consolation under all the cares of the world, 
the infirmities of your nature, and the sinkings of your 
hearts. 

He has purchased the words of your mouth ; for he 
has given you an example that ye should follow him, 
" who when he was reviled, reviled not again, and in 



214 SERMON VII. 

whose mouth was found no guile ;" and who out of the 
good treasure of his heart, brought forth good things. 

He has purchased your bodies ; those sinful bodies, 
which were once the masters of our souls, by whose 
means we often become the servants of corruption and 
sensuality : those members, which were before the in- 
struments of unrighteousness unto sin, are now made 
the instruments of righteousness unto God ; and, by the 
help and power of that spirit which he always gives to 
those that humbly ask him, we shall be able to wield 
these stubborn and rebellious members, the former in- 
struments of sin and corruption, in the living service 
of our Redeemerr It is as if we had stormed the 
camp of the enemy, — had seized his weapons and his 
armour, and had turned them against himself. 

Choose, then, which master you will serve — Mam- 
mon or God. Choose, then, which wages you will 
receive — Death or Immortality : and recollect that you 
Can no more serve both these, than you can receive 
the wages of both ; and that the service of God and of 
Mammon are as inconsistent as the death and immortal- 
ity that are their natural consequences. Think, before 
you decide, which master loves you most ; think which 
would sacrifice most for you. — Think what price the 
cold and ungenerous world would give to redeem you 
from a single pang of body or mind ; and think with 
what kind and devoted prodigality your blessed Re- 
deemer paid down himself — his body,, and his meek and 
holy spirit, for your everlasting welfare. 

Finally : it may be useful to reflect that the happi- 
ness of the next world will consist in glorifying God in 
our body, and in our spirit, and in enjoying the delights 
of his everlasting presence. We can conceive no 
other ; so that it might be well, even on this account 
alone, to cultivate a disposition that is to constitute our 
happiness to all eternity : for even if our wild hopes of 
attaining heaven without glorifying him upon earth 
were fulfilled, — after all, what would it come to? The 
last trumpet would summon us to glorify him in our 
body and in our spirit for ever and ever ! 



SERMON VIII. 



Colossians, iii. 3. 

Set your affections on things above ; not on things on 
the earth. 

To go to heaven when we die seems to be the grand 
wish that we form to ourselves whenever we happen to 
fall into a serious mood of thinking, or begin to grow 
melancholy at the prospect of death. To go to heaven, 
— and then it would appear that nothing more was 
wanting to complete our happiness. 

And yet there is one very simple question, that is 
quite surprising we so seldom think of asking ; and 
that is, — " What kind of place we should find it if we 
went there V 1 That heaven is a scene of unbounded 
happiness and everlasting delight there is no doubt 
whatever ; but should we find it so, is quite another 
question. We know that a deaf man might be sur- 
rounded with the sweetest music and the most enchant- 
ing harmony, and to him it would be all dead silence ; 
and a beautiful portrait or a lovely landscape would be 
nothing but darkness to a blind man's eye. 

But to come still nearer to the point ; we know that 
the same company that would be enjoyed by a man of 
one description would be actually insupportable to 
another ; and that there are many situations in which 
one man would find himself perfectly happy, that would 
make another utterly miserable, Now, to decide the 



216 SERMON VIII. 

question at once, only conceive for a moment that every 
man was allowed to choose for himself in this particu- 
lar, and that heaven was to be just what every man 
pleases ; and what would be the result 1 Only look 
back upon your life, and observe the scenes in which 
you felt yourself most at home — the things in which 
your soul has most delighted — where your heart was 
most interested and engaged ; and that would be your 
heaven. Fix your eye upon those scenes of your keen- 
est enjoyment — mark them well, dwell upon the cir- 
cumstances by which they were characterised, — and 
you have the kind of heaven that you would choose. 
" Where your treasure is ; there would your heart be 
also." 

With some men heaven would be — what we will not 
dare to name : we must draw a curtain over it ; — we 
might mistake it for a scene that bears another name. 
With others, it would be the sumptuous board and the 
splendid establishment. With others, it would be the 
reward of ambition, and the shout of popular applause. 
With others, a round of the amusements that fill up the 
vacancies of human life. And, in general, it would 
probably be just such a place as this earth, — only with 
a certain number of comforts and advantages superadd- 
ed, and a certain number of dangers and inconvenien- 
ces removed. 

Now, is it not probable that to such men as these, 
heaven would be a state either of languor or of misery? 
Heaven is not a theatre, that shifts the scene to suit it- 
self to every foolish fancy and every silly humour of 
the spectators. It has, indeed, its fulness of joy and 
its pleasures for evermore : but the question is, have 
we the power and the relish 'to enjoy them 1 We will 
suppose, for a moment, that our hope of going to heaven 
is, some way or other, fulfilled, and that (God knows 
how) we have passed the fearful account that we shall 
have to render, — of sins committed, of duties neglect- 
ed, of blessings abused, of time squandered away. We 
will suppose that we have found our way into that 



SERMON VIII. 



217 



heaven that is the object of our hopes : — what have we 
to promise ourselves 1 We know at least what we shall 
not find there ; we know that " naked as we came 
into this world, naked shall we go out of it ;" that the 
body which held us and the earth together is laid in the 
dust from which it was taken ; the bond that united us 
to this lower world is snapped, and the channel through 
which we communicated with it withdrawn ; and this 
busy stage, upon which our affections have been run- 
ning to and fro, seeking rest and finding none, is at 
once concealed from our view, and becomes to us a 
dead blank. Alas ! alas ! what object shall we fasten 
upon to fill up the dreary vacancy which was once 
occupied by our busy pursuits and our dear pleasures 
upon earth 1 For the gold and the silver are gone, and 
the pipe, and the viol, and the tabret, have died away 
in silence. What shall we seize upon to employ our 
minds, or to interest our hearts, or to excite our desires, 
or to fill up our conversation ? Alas ! where is the 
buying and the selling, the bustle of business, or the 
enthusiasm of enterprise, that supplied us at once with 
our cares and our hopes 1 Where is the flowing gob- 
let, and the wild and wanton merriment that used to 
set the table in a roar 1 Alas ! alas ! what shall we do 
for the delightful trifles by which we contrived, while 
we were upon the earth, to get rid of time, and forget 
that it was rolling over our heads 1 What shall we do 
for those wild pursuits by which we made ourselves mad 
for a time, and hunted eternity out of our minds ? 
What shall we do for conversation ; upon what subjects 
shall we converse 1 And then — to go on in this way 
for ever ! and for ever ! and for ever ! We cannot sit 
thus dreaming through eternity. If this be Heaven 
would to God he had left us still upon our beloved earth ! 
Wherefore have ye brought us out of Egypt, where we 
ate and drank and were merry, and have left us here to 
perish in the wilderness 1 Better would it have been 
for us to have still our interchanges of hope and fear, of 
pleasure and pain, of repose and fatigue, of joy and 

19 



218 



SERMON VIII. 



sorrow, than to endure this dismal serenity, — than to 
say in the morning, " would to God it were evening ; 
and in the evening, would to God it were morning." 

Such is what we shall not find in heaven. But what 
is it that is there ? W hat vast fund of unexampled enjoy- 
ments, what crowd of fresh delio-lits? What is there to in- 
terest our affections and to fill our thoughts? " Even He 
that jilletk all things ;" the only Being that can satisfy 
our immortal spirit ; " whom to know is life eternal," 
for " this is life eternal, to know thee, the only true 
God, and Jesus Christ whom thou hast sent." All the 
blessings and delights of heaven are described as flow- 
ing from him. " In thy presence is fulness of joy, and 
at thy right hand are pleasures for evermore." To see 
his face; to rejoice in the light of his countenance ; to 
awake and behold his glory, — are the strongest and 
loveliest ideas of happiness that even the language of 
inspiration, and " lips touched with fire," have been 
able to convey. " I beseech thee," said the prophet of 
old, " shew me thy glory." " If thy presence go not 
up with me, carry me not up out of this wilderness. I 
will stay here in the desert with thee : for what is the 
land flowing with milk and honey without thee ?" But 
the everlasting employment of the blessed spirits is 
praise, and adorations, and hallelujahs : — they are for 
ever before the throne of God, and serve him day and 
night in his temple, and they rest not day and night, 
saying, " Holy ! holy ! holy !" 

Now it may be well to ask ourselves soberly the ques- 
tion — how much of our present happiness consists in 
this which we find is to be the happiness of heaven to 
all eternity 1 Really, does it suit our ideas of happi- 
ness 1 Is it the happiness that we have been enjoying 
for our past life 1 As God liveth ! have we been most 
happy when he was nearest to us, or farthest from us ? 
Have we most enjoyed ourselves when he was most in 
our thoughts, or least in our thoughts ? Really, are 
our greatest pleasures those with which God has least 
to do 1 — and does it appear strange to us that there 



SERMON VIII. 



219 



should be such a luxury in knowing God ? Perhaps 
there are some to whom it conveys a very dead and 
very cheerless idea. To know God ! to be engaged 
in celebrating his praises to all eternity ! How long 
could we endure sugIi a labour upon earth 1 Alas ! 
alas 1 how heavy and monotonous would it appear ! 
and what a release would it be to our spirits to launch 
again from the austerity of his society into the gay 
varieties of life ! Then what becomes of your hopes of 
Heaven 1 Must it not miserably disappoint you? What 
would become of you, a forlorn and bewildered stranger, 
among the saints that rest not day and night, saying, 
Holy ! holy! holy ! What would you do ? — how would 
you dispose of yourself after the first glow of adoration 
had subsided, and the first swell of the anthem had 
died away upon your ears ? Their joys would be lost 
to you ; tor it is no stupid and senseless worship in 
which they are engaged ; no idle clamour, or servile 
adulation. But they sing with the Spirit, and they 
sing with the understanding : they know wherefore 
they praise him ; it is because they are becoming more 
and more acquainted with him who only is inexhausti- 
ble. Every other subject of thought would be drained 
by eternity ; but him, boundless and unfathomable, they 
learn, and study, and adore for ever and ever ! 

It is no heartless inquiry into abstract science ; no 
cold and merely intellectual disquisition ; but the pure 
and glorious delight of a celestial spirit observing Infin- 
ite Wisdom carrying into effect the designs of Infinite 
Benevolence ; the thrill of admiration that arises from 
being allowed to contemplate the source from which love 
and goodness are for ever issuing in all directions. 

They see and pursue him in the works of nature, and 
are permitted to discover his glory in the heavens, and 
his handy-work in the firmament. They are finding 
out, by his permission, secret after secret in the vast 
scheme of the universe ; and are taught how he guides 
the sun in his course, and ordains her journey for the 
moon ; for what purpose he made the stars, and how he 



220 SERMON VIII. 

upholds them aloft, and makes them his servants ; and 
thousands of mysteries, of which we never dream, are 
they discovering in his works ; and at every discovery 
they fall down and cry — " Holy ! holy ! holy !" 

But more especially do they study him in his work of 
Grace and Redemption ; (" for these are things which 
angels desire to look into ;") they remember that he for- 
sook his throne and left his glory to look for a guilty 
and outcast world, that had wilfully plunged into dark- 
ness ; they remember that he took upon him our vile 
and loathsome nature, bearing our sins and carrying our 
infirmities ; they remember that " he was despised and 
rejected of men, a man of sorrows, and acquainted with 
grief; that he was wounded for our sins, and bruised 
for our iniquities," and tasted the bitterness of death for 
our sakes : they see him afterwards ascending up on 
high, and leading captivity captive^ and bestowing gifts 
on man ; and behold him seated at the right hand of 
the Father, and making intercession for the transgres- 
sors ; and all this for beings who had deserted his pleas- 
ant pastures — who had flung away his rod and his staff, 
and leaned upon broken reeds ; and (what is most as- 
tonishing,) had actually lost their taste and relish for 
immortal things ; and yet talk of hoping to go to heav- 
en, without waiting to inquire what heaven is, or what it 
means. This work of mercy do the blessed inhabitants 
of heaven study for ever and ever : for it is inexhausti- 
ble as the works of creation itself. New beauties and 
fresh glories are discovered at every view. Effects, 
which perhaps never occurred to the human imagina- 
tion, may be developed from time to time ; and at ev- 
ery new discovery of love the whole heavenly host bright- 
en with immortal gratitude, and lay down their golden 
crowns before the throne, saying ; " Holy ! holy ! 
holy I" 

But this devotion to the one great source of happiness 
only serves to bind them to each other in ties that are 
delightful and everlasting : stronger than all the confed- 
eracies of sin ; stronger than the affections of parent and 



SERMON VIII. 221 

child, brother and sister, husband and wife, are the af- 
fections of these immortal spirits to each other. 

It is true they all turn their faces towards the throne ; 
but their love and their regards all meet in him who sit- 
teth upon it. Jealousy and envy, malice and revenge, 
are far away, chained down in the lake that burns for 
ever. Truth, clear truth, that needs no concealment, 
shews them each other's hearts ; and there they find 
Eternal Love written in living characters by the finger 
of God. 

Delightful beyond all the pleasures of the earth is the 
sweet counsel that these blessed beings take with each 
other, and the converse in which they indulge : it al- 
ways binds them closer than before ; for the subject is 
still — the one good God ; the good and great Redeemer, 
who brought them together and still holds them in eter- 
nal union. Is this the heaven you hoped for 1 Do you 
find yourself capable of that happiness in which it con- 
sists 1 

19* 



SERMON IX. 



Luke, ix. 23. 

And he said to tliem all : If any man will come after 
me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, 
and follow me. 

These are fearful words ! It is true, they contain an 
invitation : it is true, they are written by the mildest, 
the gentlest, and the most gracious being that ever mov- 
ed upon the earth ; who loved us more than we have ever 
loved each other, or ourselves ; and they invite us to 
follow him, who leads the way to all that is good, and 
pure, and holy, and delightful : but they speak of self- 
denial, and sufFering, and mortification. There is not 
a single human passion to which they condescend to 
appeal ; — not one of our vices, our frailties, our preju- 
dices, or our infirmities, not one even of the kind and 
generous affections of our nature, which they deign to 
conciliate or solicit for their support ; for in the same 
breath it is declared — Whosoever loveth father, or moth- 
er, or sister, or wife, or his own life, more than me or 
the gospel, is not worthy of me." 

These are fearful words : they need only be uttered 
in order to prove how we disobey them. If, instead of 
reading them in this place and on this day, when our 
minds have attained something of a serious and solemn 
cast from the service in which we have just been enga- 
ged, we were to meet them in the course of our daily 
occupation ; if they were to cross us in the midst of 
active life, while we were pursuing some of the dearest 



SERMON IX. 223 

objects of our desires,— they would sound something like 
the toll of a death-bell in our ears, and lead us to ask 
ourselves this simple question, — Am I now following 
my Redeemer, or am I following my own imaginations 1 
And yet there was a time when it was obeyed by 
thousands and ten thousands : there were men who re- 
joiced to bear their cross ; to many he had only to say, 
" Come, follow me," and they followed him : many of 
them rejoiced that they were counted worthy to sutler 
shame for his name ; " they were troubled on every 
side, yet not distressed ; perplexed, but not in despair ; 
persecuted, but not destroyed ; always bearing about in 
the body the dying of the Lord Jesus — V they " glori- 
ed in the cross of Christ, by which the world was cruci- 
fied to them and they to the world." For three hun- 
dred years they sustained their faith, and followed the 
steps of their Redeemer through oppressions, torments, 
and persecutions that exhausted the malice and ingenu- 
ity of man ; — in which the fury with which their ene- 
mies pursued them, and the miseries to which they were 
exposed for their faith, could only be equalled by the 
devotion and fortitude with which they were sustained. 
Patiently and cheerfully did they bear their cross : it 
was not long since their Redeemer himself had suffer- 
ed ; his footsteps from Jerusalem to Calvary were yet 
fresh upon the earth ; and it was not forgotten how he 
said, " The servant is not greater than his Lord." 
Those were days of affliction : but when milder times 
succeeded, and when the violence of persecution had 
subsided, Christians began to forget that they had 
still to bear their cross : they began to fancy that there 
was a different gospel for the persecuted follower of 
Christ, and him who is left at ease in his possessions. 
We must have persuaded ourselves that there is some- 
thing very different between the gospel of those days of 
glorious and devoted suffering and the gospel of these 
later times, when scarce one holy thought or one pure 
affection of the heart rises to our Redeemer ; when the 
weight of the cross is hardly felt, and scarcely one guil- 



224 SERMON IX. 

ty passion is overcome, one sinful desire repressed, for 
the sake of him who said, " Whoever will come after 
me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, 
and follow me." 

And yet let us be assured that, however times and sea- 
sons may change, the everlasting gospel is still the same. 
God is always to be worshipped in spirit ; for " God is 
a spirit ; and they that worship him must worship him 
in spirit and in truth." All the laws of the gospel are 
therefore spiritual, and are consequently unchangeable ; 
for however customs, and manners, and circumstances 
may alter, — however the way in which we are to carry 
our obedience into effect may be influenced by differ- 
ence of situation, the fountain in the heart, from which 
all our actions ate to proceed, must be the same, — the 
obedience of the soul of man to his God must be the 
same. The disposition of the Christian is the same 
through all eternity : and the same spirit that led the 
martyrs to the stake is to conduct us through the strug- 
gles of sinful nature and the temptations of a guilty 
world. 

Our Saviour foresaw that in prosperity we should be 
tempted to forget this,, and for that very reason he 
seems to have added the word " daily " in the passage 
before us, — to remind us that it is not so much by sepa- 
rate acts, and mere outward sufferings,, that he expected 
us to bear our cross, as by the constant disposition of 
our hearts and the common tenor of our lives : and for 
the same reason he takes care to explain the expres- 
sion, " bearing the cross," not so much by enduring 
persecution, or being willing to give up our lives in his 
service, as by denying ourselves daily. 

Can we be at a loss to understand this 1 We have 
only to compare ourselves with him whom we are to 
follow, in order to perceive how much we must deny 
ourselves, and that, every hour of our lives, we have to 
cast down imaginations and high things that exalt them- 
selves against the knowledge of Christ : I do not even 
say, look at your wil ul and deliberate sins ; — stop in 



SERMON IX. 225 

the midst of any earthly pursuit in which you are en- 
gaged, — look into your heart, — see what passions, what 
dispositions are there. Then look at the blessed Jesus ; 
— look at his purity, — look at his devotion, whose meat 
and drink it was to do the will of his Father whicli is 
in heaven, — his exalted love to God, — his universal 
love for every human being, for friend and for enemy, 
— a love which nailed him to the cross, from which he 
dropped the prayer, " Father, forgive them, for they 
know not what they do ;" and then shall we understand 
what it is to deny ourselves daily, — daily to bear our 
cross, though we had never any other enemy to perse- 
cute us but the sin within our own hearts. One mo- 
ment's comparison between ourselves and him whom 
we are here commanded to follow, will shew us that we 
must crucify the guilty nature within us, — that we must 
bring every guilty passion into subjection to a higher 
principle, — that we must teach our earthly affections, 
even the most innocent, to move like slaves only at the 
permission of the spirit of holiness residing within us. 

Therefore let us beware of the fatal excuses which 
we hear every day of our lives :— " If we act up to the 
nature that God has given us, shall we not do well ? 
God cannot have given us these passions without in- 
tending that they should be gratified. Why do you 
therefore tell us that they are to be daily mortified and 
overcome, and only indulged under the government of 
such a holy feeling, that, even then, they are only half 
enjoyed '?" The plain and decisive answer is this, — it 
is not the nature which God has given you. Alas ! 
supposing, for an instant, that this corrupt and sinful 
nature is that which God originally gave, — what will it 
teach us? Ask the labourer, who denies himself the 
repose which famished and exhausted nature seems 
eagerly and almost irresistibly to demand, and who 
struggles through the burning day of unremitting fa- 
tigue, why he defrauds nature of every moment of rest 
and recreation which he can wring from her ; and he 
will tell you, that self-denial is the common lot of man ; 



12Q 



SERMON IX. 



that when the earth was given for sustenance to man, 
God said, " In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat 
bread all the^days of thy life." Now what human na- 
ture can do, shall it not do for its God 1 If we find our- 
selves in the company of another, even of our dearest and 
most confidential friend, there is a degree of self-denial 
and restraint under which we lay our behaviour — a 
restraint which we shew in his presence : now the re- 
spect which we feel and the restraint to which we sub- 
ject ourselves in the presence of a human being, shall 
we not shew in the presence of "the God who is of 
purer eyes than to behold iniquity," who watches every 
thought of our souls, and who counts the beatings of 
our hearts? 

At difFerent periods of our lives we break the kindest 
and dearest ties by which nature can bind us to a fel- 
low-creature : we leave friends, and home, and all the 
associations of infancy and youth, for the purpose of 
bettering our fortunes ; and enter into new society as 
if into a new world, and undergo as it were a second 
birth into new scenes : sometimes traverse the globe in 
search of gain, or in the hope of a brief establishment 
in life before we die ; and what can we do for these 
miserable objects, shall we not do for God and for sal- 
vation ? Shall we be surprised when we hear him say, 
" Whoso loveth father or mother, or sister or wife, yea, 
or his own life, more than me, is not worthy of me," 

Our exertions for immortal happiness, and the self- 
denial necessary to accomplish it, should in fact be as 
much greater than that we now are willing to exer- 
cise, as immortality exceeds the objects which we now 
pursue. Alas! we shall have to deny ourselves daily as 
long as our nature is such as it is. This is not the na- 
ture which God gave us. The nature which God gave 
us was holy, pure, and an image of himself; the nature 
under which we now labour is sensual, corrupt, and so 
far from meriting the blessings of another world, that it 
has lost even a relish for its enjoyments. Our affec- 
tions are all earthly : we have no love to spare to our 



SERMON IX. 



227 



God ; for to love the God of holiness we must become 
holy, as he is holy. It is therefore that we are com- 
manded to deny our nature daily. It would sound 
strange if an angel were commanded to deny himself 
daily. Deny what 1 His pleasure consists in the ever- 
lasting consciousness that he is in the presence of God, 
" at whose right hand there are pleasures for evermore." 
His pleasure consists in exploring and admiring the 
perfections of God — his power, his wisdom, his un- 
fathomable goodness ; in holding humble communion 
with his Creator, and paying him devoted and everlast- 
ing adoration. Would it not sound strange if he was 
commanded to deny himself these 1 But look to man! 
Alas ! the difference between his pleasures and those 
we have been describing will make us feel in our hearts 
the necessity of 4( denying ourselves," and will shew 
us the full meaning of the precept. With which of 
all among us exists that feeling of love to God, and 
of delight in his presence, which is all in all with the 
angel 1 With which of us is it the natural feeling of 
the heart 1 And yet it should be the predominant prin- 
ciple, or it is nothing. It would seem absurd to state 
that God should be any thing but the first and ruling 
object of our affections, — that he should be subordinate 
to any other. Accordingly we find that the most tre- 
mendous denunciations are registered against those 
" who forget God :" and as that love of God, — that de- 
light in his presence, — that worship of his perfections, 
which the angel enjoys, is not the natural or governing 
feeling and sentiment of our souls, how fatally would 
this difference shew us (even if Scripture were silent 
upon the subject in every other passage but that before 
us) the justice and necessity of that precept, — that 
" we must deny ourselves ;" that we must contradict 
our nature, and make it move in daily and perpetual 
subordination to a grander principle. 

But, alas ! when we look behind, when we look be- 
fore, what consolation is there from the past, what hope 
is there from the future ? From the past it is that we 



22S SERMON IX. 

have now ascertained our danger ; and a moment's 
communion with our hearts will shew us how helpless 
of themselves, how ineffectual and insufficient they are, 
without some new vital energy to assist their weak en- 
deavours, to work out the great spiritual change, with- 
out which heaven and its happiness cannot be compre- 
hended, much less attained. But the Redeemer says, 
" Take up your cross and follow me." Here is in- 
deed consolation and pardon for the past ; hope and im- 
mortality for the future. As the ruins of that pure na- 
ture which God had endowed us with, and the express 
declaration and entire tenor of Scripture, prove that a 
great change has taken place in the human race—a 
moral corruption, that has broken the image which God 
has made for himself, and has given a shock to a part 
of his creation which he once pronounced to be " very 
good ;" it appears absolutely necessary that some great 
change, — some moral convulsion, — some shock equal 
to the first, should take place in order to restore the. de- 
rangement that was thus produced. God himself de- 
scended to bring his own work back to its purity. By 
the suffering on that cross he did what we could never 
have done for ourselves : he made atonement for our 
guilty desertion of God ; he became a full, perfect, and 
sufficient sacrifice for the sins of our degenerate spe- 
cies ; and, through that suffering and the merits of his 
blood, he procured for us an assisting Spirit, that is to 
keep pace with the weak exertions of our hearts, and 
help to overcome within us the dominion of sins, from 
the punishment of which we shall thus be acquitted 
through his mediation. 

Of this great salvation the leading condition is, Faith 
in that Redeemer, — a full reliance upon him and his 
merits, which only can procure us pardon and immor- 
tality : and nothing can teach us to understand the na- 
ture of that faith, by which only we are saved, better 
than the very passage before us : — " Take up your cross 
and follow me." It makes Christ, and Christ alone, 
the object that we are to keep constantly, unremittingly 



SERMON IX. 



229 



in view, as all we can depend upon for hope, and bles- 
sing, and salvation ; but it shews that in order to this, 
we must follow him, we must tread in his steps, we 
must imitate his example. In fact, faith (that word 
upon which so many stumble) includes in its significa- 
tion what we all perfectly well understand by a word 
very like it, fidelity ; — the fidelity of a servant to his 
master, of a disciple to his teacher. We look to him 
for every thing ; for hope, for example, and for strength. 
For hope — to his atonement, through which only we 
must look for every spiritual blessing which our 
Heavenly Father bestows ; for example — to his life 
of purity, and holiness, and charity ; for strength — 
to his Holy Spirit, without which our feeble strug- 
gles against the guilty nature within us would be all use- 
Jess and unavailing. 

Thus the text before us shews us, as it were, in a 
beautiful picture, the connexion between faith and its 
practical effects upon our lives and our feelings. It re- 
presents us following Christ humbly, yet indefatigably, 
under the burden of the cross ; keeping him in view as 
the only ground of our hope and our reliance ; and, in 
order to keep in sight, we must toil on in our journey, 
bearing the cross, treading the path he has gone before 
us. The moment we cease to tread in his footsteps, — 
the moment we halt in the way in which he has preced- 
ed, — he has got out of sight, and our faith and practice 
fail at the same instant. 

20 



SERMON X, 



Matthew, xi. 30. 
My yoke is easy, and my burden is light. 

It is almost always by comparison that we judge of 
the ease or the hardship of our situation, You will gen- 
erally find, that any man who complains of the severity 
of his lot, compares it either with some happier state 
that he had himself formerly enjoyed, or with the more 
prosperous circumstances of those by whom he is sur- 
rounded ; at least you would think him entitled to very 
little pity, if he continued to murmur and repine when 
his situation was neither worse than what it was before, 
nor worse than that of most of his neighbours. 

If you should attempt to reconcile him to his situa- 
tion, what would be the most natural method of pro- 
ceeding 1 By comparison : by shewing him how much 
worse it might have been. Now this is the best way of 
estimating the ease of the Christian yoke, and of weigh- 
ing the burden that our Redeemer lays upon our shoul- 
ders ; and thus shall we soon discover how gracious are 
those commandments which we think it hard to fulfil ; 
how indulgent are those laws which we often neglect 
and despise : then, when we have compared them with 
other yokes and other burdens, shall we learn how easy 
is that yoke to which we often refuse to submit ; how 
light that burden which we often fling with impatience 
to the ground. 

Let us first look abroad for matter of comparison. 
The greater part of the world have never yet been vis- 



SERMON X. 



231 



ited by the Gospel of Christ ; have never yet heard the 
message of love and salvation. Now it may be curious 
to observe what are the religious yokes and burdens 
which these people have imposed upon themselves ; 
that is, in other words, what are the religious duties by 
which they hope to become objects of the Divine favour, 
and partakers of the blessings he bestows, — to turn 
away his anger, to purchase his favour, to escape his 
vengeance, and conciliate his mercy. Perhaps it would 
be impossible to invent a new kind of bodily torture 
which many among these wretched people have not 
willingly undergone for these objects. All those who 
are anxious to render themselves acceptable in the 
sight of God actually devote themselves to misery, and 
go in search of some new kind of suffering, by which 
they think they can become more worthy of his appro- 
bation. It would be a kind of punishment to us even 
to hear some of them described. Death, in its ordina- 
ry shape, appears much too easy, and Would be a relief 
to their sufferings ; but they contrive to lengthen out its 
agonies, so that many of them are dying for half their 
lives in lingering torments, in which they conceive the 
Supreme Being takes peculiar delight. Sometimes 
these miserable men offer their children, their relations, 
or their friends, as a sacrifice to appease his fury ; and at 
other times they fly from the company of men, and all 
the comforts of society, to devote themselves to the ser- 
vice of the Almighty in caverns and wildernesses. Now 
observe, this arises from no command of God, — no rev- 
elation from heaven ; it is the sentence of man upon 
himself — the yoke and the burden that he has laid upon 
his own shoulders. 

Suppose God had said to us — " Wear the yoke which 
you find your fellow-creatures have voluntarily chosen. 
I will allow you to attain eternal life through these suf- 
ferings. Go, be your own torturer — bring your chil- 
dren to my altar, and honour me with their blood ; and 
banish yourself from the company of your fellow-crea- 
tures for ever, and you shall be an inheritor of my king- 



232 SERMON X. 

dom ;" — which of us could complain 1 Measure these? 
sufferings and miseries, great as they are, with life ever- 
lasting — with the glories of God's presence, and the un- 
seen riches of a future world, and you would say, Lord, 
here I give thee my body, which thou requirest to be 
burnt — here it is, ready for the agony ; and here are 
the children whose blood thou requirest of my hands, 
and here am I, prepared to fly from the fellowship of 
my brothers, and hide my head in the woods and the 
wilds from the sight of human kind, — yet still I feel it 
is only through the voluntary bounty of thy goodness 
and thy mercy that even all this can be made to avail, 
and it will still be the effect of thy loving kindness if 
even thus I become an inheritor of thy kingdom. 

Such then is the yoke and the burden of our neigh- 
bours,, and such is what our yoke and our burden might 
have been. 

It is now time to look to what it is. Where are now 
our stripes, — our agonies, — the writhings of our body 
and the vvoundings of our flesh 1 where is the lingering 
death which we are to endure, and the visitation of the 
wrath of God upon our souls % " He was wounded for 
our transgressions : the chastisement of our peace was 
laid on him." There was a beloved Son, whose blood 
was shed for our sakes ; — but the lamb was not taken 
from our flock, nor the child from our bosom : there was 
one who left his home on high for this wilderness be- 
neath, and has left us in our cheerful homes, and our 
peaceful habitations: his yoke was indeed severe, and 
his burden was heavy, for it was our toil that he endur- 
ed, and our burden that he bore. " Surely, he hath 
borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows !" and he has 
borne and carried them away. 

There is not a single pain of body or mind that we 
are called upon to endure because it is pain, — or for 
the sake of the suffering itself. There is indeed self- 
denial and mortification. But it seems to be a law that 
cannot be broken — that where there is sin there must 
be pain ; as long as there is sin alive within, there will 



SERMON X. 



233 



still be the struggle and the battle. But, even here, he 
is still with us ; for, " I am with you, even to the end 
of the world ;" and his holy and powerful Spirit is ever 
ready to sustain us. 

Now look at the imaginary god of the Indians, watch- 
ing with a kind of savage delight the agonies of its vo- 
taries ; and then look at your Redeemer, bearing away 
all the sufferings to which you were devoted, and as- 
sisting you in the conflict that you have yet to undergo ! 
He was verily and indeed crucified for our sakes, and 
his body nailed to the tree ; but when he turns to us, 
he lays the cross gently upon our shoulders, and when he 
commands us to be crucified with him, he asks for no 
torments, no blood, but that we should " Render our bo- 
dies a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable, which is 
our reasonable service ;" that we should offer them as 
temples for his Holy Spirit, that we may glorify him in 
our body and in our spirit. He left the bosom of his 
Father to become your atonement ; but when he speaks 
to you, he tells you to live still in the midst of your fam- 
ily, to tell them how good the Lord is, to teach them his 
judgments and his statutes, to shew them the path of 
life, and to lead the way, to educate a family for heav- 
en, that your " Sons may be as the young plants about 
the house of your God, and your daughters as the po- 
lished corners of the temple." The earth was to him a 
desert and a wilderness ; he was a stranger and a pil- 
grim, " that had not w r here to lay his head :" but 
when he speaks to you, so far from commanding you to 
desert your common brethren and fellow-creatures, he 
has united you to them by a bond as strong as that which 
holds the world together ; for he has said, " As I have 
loved you, so love one another ; and, by this shall all 
men know that ye are my disciples." To perpetuate 
this divine benevolence, he has ordained that the day 
which he has chosen for himself should be a day of com- 
mon assembling among those that love him, that they 
may shew how they love one another. He has pronoun- 
ced a blessing upon Christian fellowship, — " Where 

20* 



•234 



SERMON X. 



two or three are gathered together, I am in the midst of 
them ;" and the sacrament that he left as a memorial; 
of himself, he left, at the same time, as a memorial of 
Christian brotherhood and affection. 

Such is our yoke and our burden ! Let him, who 
has thought it too hard and too heavy to bear, be pre- 
pared to state it boldly when he shall appear side by side 
with the poor and mistaken Indian before the throne of 
God at the day of judgment. The poor heathen may 
come forward with his wounded limbs and weltering 
body, saying, ' 1 thought thee an austere master, de- 
lighting in the miseries of thy creatures, and I have ac- 
cordingly brought thee the torn remnants of a body 
which I have tortured in thy service.' And the Chris- 
tian will come forward, and say, * I knew that thou 
didst die to save me from such sufferings and torment?, 
and that thou only commandest me to keep my body in 
temperance, soberness, and chastity, and I thought it 
too hard for me ; and I have accordingly brought thee 
the refuse and sweepings of a body that has bern cor- 
rupted and brutalised in the service of profligacy and 
drunkenness, — even the body which thou didst declare 
should be the temple of thy Holy Spirit/ The poor In- 
dian will, perhaps, shew his hands, reeking with the 
blood of his children, saying, ' I thought this was the 
sacrifice with which God was well pleased : and you. 
the Christian, will come forward with blood upon thy 
hands,also, ' I knew that thou gavest thy Son for my 
sacrifice, and commandest me to lead my offspring in 
the way of everlasting life ;' but the command ' was too 
hard for me, to teach them thy statutes and to set them 
my humble example : I have let them go the broad way 
to destruction, and their blood is upon my hand — and 
my heart — and my head.' The Indian will come for- 
ward, and say, ^ Behold, lam come from the wood, the 
desert, and the wilderness, where I fled from the cheer- 
ful society of my fellow-mortals because I thought it 
was pleasing in thy sight.' And the Christian will come 
forward, and say, ' Behold, I come from my comforta- 



SEKMCW X. ^35 

ble home and the communion of my brethren, which 
thou hast graciously permitted me to enjoy ; but I 
thought it too hard to give thern a share of those 
blessings which thou hast bestowed upon me ; I thought 
it too hard to give them a portion of my time, my 
trouble, my fortune, or my interest ; I thought it too 
hard to keep my tongue from cursing and reviling, my 
heart from hatred, and my hand from violence and re- 
venge.' What will be the answer of the Judge to the 
poor Indian none can presume to say. That he was 
sadly mistaken in the means of salvation, and that what 
he had done could never purchase him everlasting life, 
is beyond a doubt ; but yet, the Judge may say, 
" Come unto ine, thou heavy-laden, and I will give thee 
the rest which thou couldst not purchase for thyself." 
But, to the Christian, Thou, who hadst my easy yoke, 
and my light burden ; thou, for whom all was already 

purchased." Thank God ! it is not yet pronounced : 

— begone ! and fly for thy life ! 

We have now compared the Christian yoke with that 
of others, — we have looked abroad for comparison. We 
have next to look at home, and compare it with those 
yokes which the Christian yoke displaces, — those yokes 
which are flung off when this is assumed. 

There is the yoke of pride : — and who has not felt 
its weight 1 There is scarcely a day of our lives in 
which our pride is not hurt. Sometimes we meet with 
direct affront ; at other times, we do not think we are 
treated with the respect we deserve ; at other times, we 
find that people do not entertain the opinion of us which 
we would w 7 ish them to hold ; but, above all, how often 
do we find ourselves lowered in our own opinion ; and 
then the yoke of pride becomes more uneasy by our en- 
deavours to regain our own good opinion, and to hide 
the real state of the case from our conscience. 

But the Christian's yoke is humility ; its very nature 
depends upon humility : for no one has submitted to 
the service of Christ, or become his disciple, until fully 
sensible of his own unworthiness, and, consequently, of 
his want of the merits of a Redeemer. Thus has the 



236 SERMON X. 

Christian become acquainted with the plague of his 
own heart, — his sin has been often before him ; and, 
however deeply he may lament its guilt, he has lost that 
blind and haughty self-sufficiency that makes him uneasy 
at the neglect of others, or afraid to stand the scrutiny 
of self-examination. 

There is the yoke of debauchery and sensuality : 
that galling yoke, which even those who wear it can- 
not bear to think upon ; and, therefore, they still con- 
tinue to plunge into drunkenness and profligacy lest 
they should have time to think on their lost and dis- 
graceful situation. Those miserable men, when the 
carousal and the debauch are over, then begin to feel 
the weight and the wretchedness of the yoke that they 
are bearing. They then feel what it is to load their bo- 
dies with pain and disease, and their everlasting souls 
with every foul and sinful thought ; to have brutalised 
their nature, or to have sunk it, by intoxication, into a 
state of which brutes seem incapable ; and they then 
feel the weight of their yoke, when this indulgence has 
put them into such a state of madness and insensibility 
that they may commit a crime which will be the yoke 
and the burden of their consciences for the rest of their 
lives. Is it necessary to compare the Christian yoke 
with this '! We will not disgrace it by naming it in the 
same breath. 

Then there is the yoke of covetousness : and who 
does not know all the cares, all the watchings, all the 
restless days and sleepless nights, — and, after all, the 
endless disappointments that the most prosperous and 
successful will have to encounter through life 1 And 
then the fearful anticipation of that day, when a man 
shall find that all these things are as if they had never 
been ! 

The Christian, indeed, has his fears and his trem- 
blings, — his watchings and his prayers ; and he has to 
bear his burden through the strait gate along a narrow 
way. But richer than all that misers ever dreamed of, 
or fancied, is the treasure over which he watches ; and 
its attainment is as much more certain, as its value is 



SERMON X. 



237 



more lasting and more glorious : u Seek, and ye shall 
find," sounds sweetly in his memory, and hope already 
represents the heaven to which he is approaching ; and 
the love of Christ, and the power of his spirit, and the 
conviction that the Lord is on his side, and that " He 
is able to keep that which is committed to him," will 
make his cares and his watchings more delightful than 
the rich man's repose. 

O ye sinners ! who have set your hearts upon the 
world and its vanities, and who say that the Lord is a 
hard task-master ; and who think that the spiritual de- 
lights of his service, even upon this miserable earth, are 
all vain imaginations, — if you do not believe that the 
Lord will fulfil his promise upon earth, do you mean to 
say that you believe he will fulfil his promises in heaven T 
Do you pretend that you trust in Christ for acceptance 
in another world when you doubt his good promise in 
this ? Do you mean to say, that you believe that he is 
able and willing to raise your vile body at the last day, 
and that he is not able and willing to support you under 
any spiritual sacrifice that you may make for his sake — 
that he is not able to change and purify your old heart 1 
Do you really believe the one without the other 1 

But the grand difference between the Christian and 
the man of the world is, that the burden of the one is 
gathering as he proceeds, while that of the other is be- 
coming lighter and more easy : the man of carnal mind 
and worldly affections clings more and more to his be- 
loved earth, and new cares thicken around his death- 
bed ; — his burden is collecting as he advances, and 
when he comes to the edge of the grave it bears him 
down to the bottom like a mill-stone. But the Blessed 
Spirit, by gradually elevating the Christian's tempers' 
and desires, makes obedience become more easy, and 
delightful, until he mounts into the presence of "God^ 
where he finds it " a service of perfect freedom." 



SERMON XI.* 



Preached at St. Werburgh's Church, for the Parochi' 
al School of St. Audeon, 27th June, 1818. 



Romans, v. (part of the 12th Verse.) 
By one man sin entered into the world. 

It is a gloomy thought, that we were once better than 
we are : many a generous spirit has had life embittered 
by such a recollection ; and a similar feeling is natu- 
rally excited when we consider that we are degraded 
beings in the scale of creation, and that we have lost 
the attitude which we were intended to maintain among 
the works of God. 

It is indeed easily said, with a sigh, that we are all 
fallen beings,— and it is easily forgotten again. But 
when this humiliating truth has once taken possession 
of the mind ; when it ceases to be a mere verbal ad- 
mission, and becomes a living and habitual principle, 
it is surprising what a powerful ascendency, and what a 
purifying influence it exercises over the heart and the 

* This was one of the author's earliest Sermons : it has been 
transcribed for the press from several detached fragments of 
paper, and it is supposed that parts of it have been lost, which 
accounts for some apparent incoherency in the plan. How- 
ever, imperfect as it is, it may not appear unworthy of a place 
in this Collection, as a specimen of the author's first addresses 
from the pulpit. — Editor. 



SERMON XI. 



239 



faculties ; how it quenches the fiery and restless spirit 
within us; how it subdues much of what is bold and 
daring in the disposition ; how it hangs like a dead 
weight upon many a haughty and aspiring thought ; how 
it crushes many a proud and ambitious purpose in the 
dust ! — and it is well that it should be so. It is no great 
proof of courage to carry a higher spirit in the sight of 
God while we are moving through life, than we expect 
to sustain when we are stretched faint and powerless 
upon our death-beds ; or to tread with a firmer step and 
a loftier port upon the face of the earth, than when we 
are advancing to the throne of God at the day of judgr 
ment. 

But if a sense of our degeneracy represses all the 
proud and rebellious principles of our nature, it is calr 
culated to draw forth in a peculiar manner all that is 
humble, and kind, and amiable, and affectionate ; — it 
teaches us to look upon others with a pity inspired by 
our own experience ; — it calls upon us loudly to make 
common cause against the misfortunes of our common 
situation ; for it is a grand principle insinuated into 
our nature by the Deity, that we are more intimately 
linked together by a sense of common danger than by a 
state of common security. Humility is the true source 
of Christian benevolence ; humility, that reads its own 
lot in that of a fellow-creature, — that reminds us " that 
all have sinned," and that therefore we are all stran- 
gers and pilgrims on the earth. It does not, like the 
benevolence of the world, seat you upon an eminence, 
from which, like some superior being, you may fling a 
scanty and occasional pittance to the wretches whom 
you see struggling beneath ; but it places you with 
them, side by side, toiling onward the same way, only 
better furnished for the journey, and called on by the 
voice of God and all the charities of the human heart 
to reach forth your hand to your weaker and more 
helpless fellow-travellers. 

The fall of man, and the consequent deterioration of 
our nature, has been ridiculed by many of the enemies 



240 



SERMON XI. 



of Christianity as fabulous and unphilosophical ; but it 
should be recollected, that we cannot indulge a single 
hope of ever rising to a higher state of being, without 
admitting an equal probability, in the nature of things, 
that we have fallen from it : we must give up our hopes 
of a more spiritualised and glorious existence, and con- 
demn the human race to utter annihilation, upon the 
same principle on which we deny the possibility of 
our corruption and degeneracy : and if we attentively 
observe the features of the nature to which we belong, 
we shall perceive a struggle between different princi- 
ples, and a discordance of feeling in the same person 
at different periods, that we often unconsciously regard 
as the conflict of two contending natures. 

We have, indeed, but a slight account of the state 
from which we fell : perhaps it would have been useless 
to have described it more circumstantially — we might 
not be capable of understanding it. The prophet 
seems to have exhausted description when he tells us, 
that we were " made in the image of God;" so that, if 
we wish to ascertain what we were, it would seem we 
must look to the Deity himself. This would be a bold 
task, even though we undertook it for the purpose of 
humbling ourselves to the dust. But there is one cir- 
cumstance related which helps us to understand in 
what consists our humiliation : — when Adam had sin- 
ned, he shrunk from the voice of God. The presence 
of that gracious Being, who was identified with every 
blessing that he enjoyed, was before gratefully and 
gladly encountered : the thought of God was above him, 
and enveloped him, and he could throw his heart open, 
fearlessly, before him, and shew him his own image. 
But now, how many of the thoughts of our heart would 
be put to flight by one glance of God into our souls ! 
how many of our pleasures would vanish before the 
idea of his presence ! We know too well what an en- 
emy to many of our favourite pursuits is the God " who 
is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity ;" and when 
we hear his voice, we attempt to shut ourselves from his 



SERMON XI. 241 

view by excluding him from our thoughts, as if, under 
the shelter of such a subterfuge as this, we could elude 
either his scrutiny or his vengeance ; and if nothing 
occurred to seize our attention by surprise, or force our 
minds upon the consideration, perhaps the first thing 
that would awaken us to a just sense of our situation 
would be the sound of the last trumpet ! 

But sometimes we have strange misgivings. In the 
depth of the night, when we are left to darkness, to si- 
lence, and ourselves, the utter stillness, and the blank 
void that surround us sometimes bring a powerful sense 
of God's presence along with them, — and the more we 
attempt to escape it, the more palpably it seems to gath- 
er around us in the obscurity. Some way or other, man 
can never be totally alone ; the very absence of every 
other being, and of every other object of sense or 
thought, appears almost necessarily and irresistibly to 
suggest the presence of God. Then, when we seem 
to feel ourselves, as it were, under the immediate pres- 
sure of the Almighty, the thought will occur, " Was he 
not equally present this day and every moment of my 
life 1 and yet how little have I been influenced in my 
heart, conversation, and conduct, by the sense that his 
eye was everlastingly open upon me, as it is at this in- 
stant!" 

In the fire and vigour of active life, man devotes all 
his energies, faculties, and exertions to the attainment 
of some favourite object, and pursues it, as if it were 
immortality itself, with a fond and desperate idolatry. 
The fatal remark, that all he seeks is " vanity," in- 
trudes into his conversation, or suggests itself in his 
schemes. He gives it the usual tribute that is paid to 
most moral truths — a sign of acknowledgment, then 
hurries on, snatching his joys, and struggling through 
his difficulties, until a blow is struck ! His hope, upon 
which he built his happiness, is shivered ; he stands 
aghast, like one startled from a dream, and the com- 
mon and monotonous truth, that all he seeks is " vani- 
ty," comes upon him, like something strange and orac- 

21 



242 



SERMON XI. 



ular, with a painful and bewildering novelty, arising 
from the consciousness thai it had long been sounding 
in his mind and echoing in his fancy, but had never be- 
fore reverberated to his heart. Then, at length, when 
he has no other object to which he can turn either for 
pursuit or relief, lor activity or repose, he thinks of 
turning himself to his God ; and the thought will oc- 
cur, * If I had served my God as I have pursued this 
earthly object, he would not have deserted me :' the 
thought will occur, ' If God had offered me immortal 
happiness, such as eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, 
neither hath it entered into the heart of man to con- 
ceive, merely if it were then the first object of my de- 
sires, — to me it had been lost ! My affections never 
ascended into heaven, they went wandering to and fro 
upon the earth, seeking rest and finding none.' We 
then learn the nature of sin, — we learn that we have 
forsaken God, and that we have not only lost immortal- 
ity, but even a relish for its enjoyments. 

The very pleasures we are capable of enjoying ex- 
hibit something ruinous in their nature. In the course 
of our lives we find that evil is not only perpetually in- 
terchanging with good, but that it is actually necessary 
to its very existence. If we attentively observe our 
pleasures, we shall find that many of them partake of 
its nature ; and if it is often an interruption to our en- 
joyments, it is still oftener, perhaps always, either their 
chief cause, or one of their necessary ingredients. — 
Our passion for variety is an evident proof of this : we 
are so far from having a lively idea of smooth and un- 
interrupted happiness, that the most luxuriant descrip- 
tion soon becomes languid and uninteresting ; while 
the mournful, the terrible, the abrupt, possess a strange 
and mysterious attraction, which seldom loses its influ- 
ence over our minds. Our greatest pleasures are often 
only escapes from pain ; — often grow in proportion to 
it, are often heightened by contrast ; and many can re- 
flect with pleasure upon the bitterest grief, in recollect- 
ing the sweetness of the consolation by which it was 



SERMON XI. 



243 



followed. Such is the incomprehensible nature to 
which we belong ! We are perpetually flying from 
evil, and meeting it at every turn in the shape of good ; 
— pursuing good, and finding it evil in disguise ; — 
talking of happiness, without well knowing what it 
means. 

In such a state as this, when we knew not whither 
we were tending, and while no light was thrown across 
the grave into another world, it is natural to suppose 
that we felt comparatively little in each other's fate. — 
Yet, even in a more hopeless state than" this, does our 
great poet represent the fallen angels consoling each 
other in their melancholy destiny, for whom no gospel 
ever sounded, and no Saviour ever bled, to cheer them 
into exertion, and to consecrate their communion. But 
to us has he come : and if he had never said, " As I 
have loved you, so love one another ;" if he had never 
said, " What you give unto these little ones is given 
unto me ;" would not the sense of your common fall 
animate you to assist them to a common renovation ?" 

And let it not be forgotten, that the charity of & 
Christian and of a man of the world are far asunder. 
The charity of the man of the world is bestowed as the 
gift of some superior being to a creature of a lower or- 
der ; the charity of the Christian is the self-devotion of 

Paul for his brethren of the same great family. 

* # # # 

Perhaps we were destined to have risen into the rank 
of angels ; perhaps we were destined to have become 
ministering spirits to such heingsas ourselves. 

And if there were then any guilty world which had 
rebelled against its Creator, and which he had flung 
from him, in his wrath, among the refuse of creation ; 
and if it contained sin, and misery, and death, robbe- 
ries, murders, adulteries ; if its inhabitants had forgot- 
ten their God, as if he had never existed, and rivetted 
their affections upon the few perishable blessings that 
were not yet taken away ; if, at the same time, there 
still remained some fragments of a grander nature, — 



244 



SERMON XI. 



some scanty gleams of a brighter intellect, — some faint 
and transitory glowings of purer and holier affections, 
— some few traits of resemblance to that happy nature 
which we enjoyed ; it might have been one of our per- 
mitted occupations to visit, at certain intervals, this ru- 
ined people. Then might we have enjoyed that light 
and easy charity which we must not now dare to arro- 
gate to ourselves,— the condescending benevolence of 
superior beings to their fallen and degraded inferiors. 
If, while we were wandering through the universe and 
exploring the infinity of God, the sound of sorrow and 
despair were to reach us from some distant and passing 
world, we might turn aside, for a moment, out of our 
course, and drop the consolation, without looking into 
the misery that we relieved. We might make our vis- 
its as we pleased, and ease a grief or share a joy, as ei- 
ther was presented to our view ; and if their Creator 
again looked graciously upon thai abandoned race, and 
sent a Saviour to bring them back within reach of his 
goodness, we might come down softly upon the shep- 
herds of that people, as they were keeping watch over 
their flocks by night, with good tidings of great joy, or 
bear the spirits of the redeemed from a world of rest- 
lessness into their everlasting repose. But this is not 
the charity for such beings as we are, either to receive 
or give. Our salvation was not effected by such happy 
beings as these : — it was by one who was " a man of 
sorrow, and acquainted with grief." 

It is a cruel mockery of our nature to represent 
Christian charity with all the decorations of a heathen 
goddess, and arrayed in the fond and romantic orna- 
ments that charm and invite the imagination. Alas ! 
Christian charity has no wings to bear her through a 
purer and loftier atmosphere, while she showers down 
blessings upon the multitude beneath : she does not 
drop the sheaf into the poor man's bosom, or the gar- 
land upon his cottage, while she passes in her car of 
triumph over his head. But sometimes she is found in 
the most loathsome of human habitations, and in con- 



SERMON XI. 



245 



tact with wretches, from whose guilt or whose misery 
the moral sense recoils, and at which the refinement of 
education shudders in disgust : sometimes her figure is 
scarcely discernible while she struggles her lonely and 
weary way through the crowd of poverty, impurity, and 
sin : she may be seen turning into the dark and com- 
fortless hovel, and speaking the Messed gospel of God, 
over the dying embers of a winter's fire, to the shiver- 
ing, perhaps hardened beings that surround it : at other 
times, she stands over the damp and squalid bed, where 
the frame is racked with suffering and disease, where 
perhaps conscience is doing her angry work, or is ly- 
ing, still more fearfully, asleep. It is folly to attempt 
to reconcile this to the Christian's mind by painting 
her with the graces artd the virtues in her train. Alas ! 
even the blessed beings that are then perhaps actually 
around him, — the constituted authorities of heaven, 
that minister to a Christian's imagination, and upon 
which his fancy is permitted to repose, — even these of- 
ten appear to forsake him ; the guardian-angel seems 
to stand far aloof above the cabin that is the scene of 
pollution and depravity ; the waving of golden pinions 
is but dimly seen through the soiled and shattered lat- 
tice ; the song of cherubim and seraphim is only heard 
faintly, aloft and at a distance, through broken' inter- 
vals, between the shrieks of bodily pains, or the groans 
of mental agony ! But the Christian recollects that 
there was one gracious Being who went before him, 
and who left an invigorating spirit behind him, whose 
office was to support those whom all the world had for- 
saken. 

# # • , * * 

Suppose it were suddenly revealed to any one among 
you, that he, and he alone of all that walk upon the 
face of this earth, was destined to receive the benefit of 
his Redeemer's atonement, and that all the rest of man- 
kind was lost — and lost to all eternity ; it is hard to say 
what would be the first sensation excited in that man's 
mind by the intelligence. It is indeed probable it 

21* 



246 



SERMON XI. 



would be joy — to think that all his fears respecting his 
eternal destiny were now no more ; that all tho. forebo- 
dings of the mind and misgivings of the heart — all the 
solemn stir which we feel rising within us whenever we 
look forward to a dark futurity, — to feel that all these 
had now subsided for ever, — to know that he shall 
stand in the everlasting sunshine of the love of God ! 
It is perhaps impossible that all this should not call forth 
an immediate feeling of delight : bat if you wish the 
sensation to continue, you must go to the wilderness ; 
you must beware how you come within sight of a hu- 
man being, or within sound of a human voice ; you 
must recollect that you are now alone upon the earth ; 
or, if you want society, you had better look for it among 
the beasts of the field than among the ruined species to 
which you belong ; unless indeed the Almighty, in pity 
to your desolation, should send his angels before the 
appointed lime, that you might learn to forget in their 
society the outcast objects of your former sympathies. 
But to go abroad into human society, — to walk amongst 
beings who are now no longer your fellow-creatures, — 
to feel the charity of your common nature rising in 
your heart, and to have to crush it within you like a 
sin, — to reach forth your hand to perform one of the 
common kindnesses of humanity, and to find it wither- 
ed by the recollection, that however you may mitigate 
a present pang, the everlasting pang is irreversible ; to 
turn away in despair from these children whom you 
have now come to bless and to save (we hope and trust 
both here and for ever) ! — perhaps it would be too 
much for you ; at all events, it would be hard to state 
a degree of exertion within the utmost range of human 
energy, or a degree of pain within the farthest limit of 
human endurance, to which you would not submit, that 
you might have one companion on your lonely way from 
this world to the mansions of happiness. But suppose, 
at that moment, that the angel who brought the first in- 
telligence returns to tell you that there are beings upon 
this earth who may yet be saved, — that he was before 



SERMON XI. 247 

mistaken, no matter how, — perhaps he was your guar- 
dian angel, and darted from the throne of grace with 
the intelligence of your salvation without waiting to 
hear the fate of the rest of mankind, — no matter how, 
but he conies to tell you that there are beings upon the 
earth who are within the reach of your Redeemer's 
love, and of your own, — that some of them are now 
before you, and their everlasting destiny is placed in 
your hands : then, what would first occur to your mind ? 
— privations, dangers, difficulties 1 No : but you 
would say, Lord, what shall I do 1 shall I traverse 
earth and sea, through misery and torment, that of 

those whom thou hast given me I may not lose one ? 

# * * # 

We are not indeed called to perform duties to such 
an awful extent, but we are called upon to perform sev- 
eral duties of the same description. It may be yours 
to move amongst your fellow-citizens, diffusing a Chris- 
tian's charity and a Christian's example through many 
a circle of society ; to heal many a broken heart ; to 
cheer many a wounded spirit ; at least you will not for- 
sake these children : — that indeed should be your light 
and delightful duty. On the mature and the aged, 
many a gift falls dead and unvalued — many a seed is 
sown that never springs into harvest. But here, where 
youth is flexible and genial (and the decency in which 
they now stand before you proves how the seed is culti* 
vated,) every grain that you sow may bring forth an 
hundred-fold, bearing fruit to everlasting life. 



SERMON XII. 



1 Corinthians, xiii. 12 and 13, 

Now we see throvgh a glass darkly ; but then, face to 
face : now I know in part, but then shall I know, 
even as also I am known. And now abideth Faith, 
Hope, Charity, — these three ; but the greatest of 
these is Charity. 

It must sometimes appear very extraordinary, that 
God has not thought fit to give us more information 
respecting the pains and pleasures of the world to which 
we are fast approaching. We know, indeed, that there 
are the torments of hell and the delights of heaven ; — 
that there are sufferings, compared with which, all the 
misery that we can undergo upon the earth would ap- 
pear rest and tranquillity ; and that there is a fulness of 
joy that would make all earthly happiness seem " van- 
ity and vexation of spirit." 

This " we see in a glass darkly :" but when we at- 
tempt to explore those glorious mansions of unextin- 
guishable happiness, or those awful regions of hopeless 
misery, or to discover of what particular kind are those 
sufferinors and those enjoyments, — our search is stop- 
ped. We find that, in a great measure, " clouds and 
darkness rest upon them," and that we shall not well 
comprehend their nature, until the day when we shall 
be wrapped in the flames that shall never be quenched, 
or mantled in the glories that shall shine as the firma- 
ment, for ever and ever. 



SERMON XII. 249 

It is very natural that our curiosity should feel morti- 
fied at the disapponitment ; but, besides, we cannot help 
conceiving that if we were better acquainted with these 
punishments and these enjoyments, we should be more 
powerfully restrained from sin and more vigorously ex- 
cited to obedience. We cannot help thinking, that if 
the miserable man who is storing up " wrath for him- 
self against the day of vengeance," — in drunkenness 
and debauchery, in an unholy conversation, in an old 
heart, unchanged and unsanctified, — only knew what 
were the particular agonies that awaited him in the 
world to come, he could not proceed in his course of 
misery and perdition ; and if the Bible contained a his- 
tory of the dismal abode to which he is approaching, 
with a minute and circumstantial account of all its 
chambers of horrors, and this wretched man were to 
study before-hand the sufferings into which he was 
plunged, — it seems to our frail conceptions impossible, 
that he would not cast himself upon his knees, and smite 
upon his breast, saying, " God be merciful to me a 
sinner !" And, on the other hand, we cannot help fan- 
cying that if the glories of everlasting felicity were more 
distinctly revealed to the humble and contrite, who are 
bearing their cross and following their Redeemer, they 
would encounter temptation with greater vigour and 
resolution, when the crown that was purchased for 
them was hanging distinctly in view, and they had a 
clearer and more lively representation of the immortal- 
ity to which they were advancing. 

But the fact seems to be, that in our present state we 
are not capable of more than is already revealed. The 
great probability is, that these pains and these plea- 
sures can never be understood except by actual experi- 
ence,— except by being actually suffered, or actually 
enjoyed. This seems to be intimated by the apostle in 
the verse immediately preceding those before us : — 
" When I was a child I spake as a child, I thought as 
a child ; but when I became a man, 1 put away child- 
ish things." He describes our state in this life as one 



250 SERMON XII. 

of infancy or childhood, in which our language, and our 
notions of things, must be suited to our childish capacK 
ties. Now we know, or we ought to know, what a pri- 
vilege it is to receive an education that cultivates and 
informs our minds,— that enables us to read the word of 
God, and to understand as much of his will as has been 
revealed. In fact, what would we take in exchange? 
And yet we know how fruitless it would be, when we 
were first commencing to instruct a child in spelling, if 
we should endeavour to excite it to diligence by descant- 
ing on the miseries of ignorance, or enlarging on the 
advantages of education, and all the pleasures that it 
afforded, — or by attempting to disclose the treasures 
that the word of God contains. We should see clearly 
that such things were beyond its capacity ; and that, 
before it could comprehend all these pleasures and ad- 
vantages, it must understand them nearly as well as we 
ourselves. 

So it is with us, in some degree, in this mortal state. 
We are mere children, and incapable of adequately 
comprehending the things that belong to a more advan- 
ced condition of existence. But all of which we are 
capable our blessed Father has given. Let us return 
to the example with which the apostle has supplied us. 

When you found yourself unable to make your child 
comprehend, before it could read', the advantages and 
peculiar blessings of a good and religious education, by 
what means would you induce it to submit to your com- 
mands ? You would first endeavour to supply it with 
an implicit confidence both in your wisdom and your 
good-will : you would endeavour to make it feel, that 
though it could not perceive the use of what you were 
teaching, you were certainly working for its good : you 
would shew it by your kindness and your love, — by all 
the sacrifices you were willing to make for its comfort 
and welfare, that you Gould have nothing but its happi- 
ness in view ; and thus its confidence in your wisdom, 
your good- will, and affection, would stand instead of an 
actual knowledge of the advantages to be derived from 



SERMON XII. 251 

the instructions you were conveying, advantages 

which, we have already seen, it could not yet compre- 
hend. 

And thus does our Father deal with us. We are 
poor, ignorant, and helpless children, who do not un- 
derstand either all the miseries of sin, or all the glories 
of a noble and more exalted state. Such knowledge is 
too wonderful for us ; we cannot attain unto it. But 
the gracious Lord, in place of this knowledge, lias giv- 
en us Faith, — a ground of trust and confidence in him, 
that may induce us to learn his law, and to submit our- 
selves, our souls and bodies, to his good government. 
What proofs has he not given us of his wisdom, his 
good-will, and his affection ? We need mention but 
one. We need not even speak of all the noble faculties 
with which he has endowed us, all the gifts that he has 
showered upon our unworthy heads — health, strength, 
home, and friends, — comforts and blessings that cannot 
be counted. We need mention but one, — " He that 
spared not his own Son, but gave him for us, how shall 
he not with him, freely give us all things V This is the 
great ground of a Christian's faith, — that for us blind, 
childish, corrupt, and guilty sinners (so far from deserv- 
ing — incapable even of understanding the enjoyments 
of a future and holy state) he gave his own Son ! What 
earthly parent is entitled to this confidence 1 O if we had 
waited for such a proof of the kindness of an earthly fa- 
ther before we had submitted ourselves to his guidance, 
we should have been now naked, dark, and wandering 
savages. One would have thought that we might have 
given our gracious Father credit for his good intentions ; 
but, though we knew God, we glorified him not as God. 
It was not enough ; for though the " ox knoweth his 
owner, and the ass his master's crib," we went after our 
own lusts and imaginations, we would not believe what 
we did not understand, — the miseries of the guilty, and 
the joys of the righteous. We would not believe them, 
so as to purify our hearts and change our lives and con- 
versations. Yet he would win our confidence,— he 



252 , SERMON XII. 

would engage our affections, — he would make us regard 
him as a Father, and obey him as a Father, and " he 
spared not his own Son." And thus as the earthly fa- 
ther, instead of vainly attempting to describe to his 
child all the blessings and pleasures of good habits and 
a religious education, would inspire him with a trust in 
his good intentions, — so God, when nothing else could 
save us, delivered up his own Son ; and thus convinces 
us what good things he has in store for them that love 
him, that we might be willing to forsake our own ways 
— the ways of ruin and misery, and submit to be taught, 
to be educated, to be directed by him ; and therefore 
does he declare, " Except ye be converted, and become 
as little children, ye cannot enter the kingdom of heav- 
en." 

Thus faith abideth instead of knowledge, and is to 
produce the same effect. It is instead of the knowledge 
of the miseries of hell and the glories of heaven : for 
what must we believe them to be, if it cost the blood of 
the Son of God to deliver us from the one, and to pur- 
chase for us the other ? 

But this is not all. When your child had been led to 
repose his confidence in your good intentions, and had 
accordingly submitted his will to yours, and consented 
to be taught, controlled, and directed by your instruc- 
tions and commands, — as he advanced and improved 
you would attempt to give him some distant idea of the 
good and glorious effects of the discipline to which he 
was submitting : as his mind became more enlarged, 
you would find him better able to comprehend the hap- 
py consequences. You would soon release him from 
the bare necessity of taking your word that you were 
working for his good. He would soon learn to guess, 
from the progress he had already made, the noble ad- 
vantages that were to follow : he would see them, but 
still, through a glass, darkly : and thus hope would be 
added to faith. 

Thus does our Father educate those who have first 
submitted themselves, soul and body, to his govern- 



SERMON XII. 



253 



ment, with implicit and unbounded faith that he will 
work all for their good. To those who thus with hum- 
ble faith renounce their own ways, and say, " Not my 
will, but thine be done," he soon causes a light to spring ; 
he gives them a hope, — a hope of the particular kind of 
good things which he has in reserve for them. Thus 
saith St. John : " Beloved, now are we the sons of God; 
and it doth not yet appear what we shall be ; but we 
know, that when he shall appear we shall be like him, 
for we shall see him as he is." Here is the hope of 
the Christian, that he shall be made like the Saviour ; 
that he shall see him and shall always enjoy his presence : 
and St Paul tells us, that " we are come to the heav- 
enly Jerusalem, — to an innumerable company of an- 
gels, to the general assembly and church of the first- 
born whose names are written in heaven, and to the 
spirits of just men made perfect." This is the Christian's 
hope, — that he shall be like the Saviour, — that he shall 
enjoy the everlasting presence of God, and the society 
of angels, and of just men made perfect. He has his eye 
raised above the earth, and fixed upon objects far above 
mortal vision, but not out of the sight that God has 
quickened and enlightened : and, in comparison with 
the glories that shall be revealed, earthly pleasures 
dwindle and melt down into nothing. 

Thus abideth hope instead of knowledge. Like the 
patriarch in days of old, who said, " I beseech thee, 
shew me thy glory ;" who was told, " thou canst not 
see my face, and live : but thou shalt stand upon a rock 
(and that rock was Christ,) and it shall come to pass, 
when my glory passeth by, that I will put thee in a cleft 
of the rock, and I will cover thee with mine hand while 
I pass by, and will take away mine hand, and thou 
shalt see my skirts, but my face shall not be seen :" — 
thus are we in a cleft of a rock, and his hand covers us, 
and we see the dim light of his skirts as he passes by ; 
but our flesh rests in hope that we shall one day see his 
face. 

But this is not all. When your child has made some 

22 



254 



SERMON XII. 



considerable progress, and, resting on faith and animat- 
ed by hope, has acquired larger faculties and greater 
knowledge, and has actually employed that knowledge 
in an active life, and used it for its proper purposes, — 
then you can say to him, ' Now you need not merely re- 
ly upon my word ;' now you need not even feed upon 
hope ; but now feel and know of your own experience 
the beauty and delight of the discipline to which you 
have submitted. 

And thus does our Father deal with us in a future 
■world. Faith and hope will be no more ; they will both 
have done their duty, and we shall bid them farewell 
ior ever . we shall then see the things that we believed, 
and enjoy the things that are hoped. But charity or 
love never faileth, for love will live and increase to all 
eternity. In love, we have actual and present experi- 
ence of the future joys of the presence of God. Now 
we believe, not because of thy saying, — but we have 
known and tasted it ourselves. We are expressly told 
that God is love : he is not only boundless in love, but 
it seems to be almost his very essence. It does not say, 
love to this one, or to that one, but — love. 

It is love that delights in God, — in communion with 
him, — in meditation upon his attributes and his dispen- 
sations, in the imitation of his perfections ; " that suf- 
fered long and is kind ; that envieth not, vaunteth not 
itself, and is not puffed up, doth not behave itself un- 
seemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, 
thinketh no evil, rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth 
in the truth." Thus, through love, shall we indeed 
bear the living stamp of Almighty God upon our hearts ; 
and heaven will be already begun in our souls. Thus 
shall we learn something of the glories that are to come, 
— something that shall be at once both a pledge and 
foretaste. And thus also shall the wicked, and the 
worldly, and the carnal man, obtain a foretaste of the 
horror of hell, — and of the cup that he is to drain. If, 
instead of a faith, that throws him upon the Lord Jesus 
Christ, he has a trust in himself, and in his worldly pos- 



SERMON XII. 



255 



sessions, for happiness ; if, instead of a hope that rais- 
es his eye to heaven, his thoughts go downward to the 
dust upon which he treads, and his heart is the abode of 
carnal, and worldly, and malignant passions and desires, 
— this man can form some conception of the fearful re- 
gion of misery. He can conceive the opposite of that 
love which constitutes the happiness of the blessed spir- 
its above : he can conceive a scene of everlasting sel- 
fishness and suspicion ; of multitudes of evil beings, 
without one link of affection to unite them ; but the 
everlasting scowl of hatred is upon their brows, and the 
curse upon their lips. This may be a faint anticipa- 
tion of those terrible scenes. 

We are here, then, in a state of education for heaven ; 
and we may now form some conception of the desperate 
infatuation of those men who leave this mighty work 
for the listlessness of old age, or the agonies of a dying 
bed ! It should be nothing less than the business of an 
education, — an education that begins with a faith, that 
can only rise from a deep sense of our own unworthi- 
ness and danger, and that our sins need the blood of 
the Son of God ; — that proceeds to ahoi.e, which raises 
the eye and the heart from earth to heaven, and changes 
all our views ; and then proceeds to charity, which 
stamps upon us the image of the pure and holy God. 



SERMON X1IL 



Ecclesiastes, viii. 11. 

Because sentence against an evil work is not exe- 
cuted speedily, therefore the heart of the sons of men 
is fully set in them to do evil. 

If we had seen one of our neighbours struck dead by 
a flash of lightning, just after he had been committing 
one of our favourite sins, it is to be supposed it would 
make a serious impression upon our minds. If we af- 
terwards beheld two or three more of our acquaintances 
blotted out of life in the same way, and for the same 
reason, we should probably begin to bring the case a 
little more home to ourselves. If there were afterwards 
another, and another, and another ; and we were in 
the habit of seeing God's wrath executed every day, 
the moment it was provoked, it is surprising what a 
change we should presently observe among all the care- 
less and bold-faced sinners of society : drunkards shrink- 
ing from the flowing bowl, as if it were filled with poi- 
son ; fornicators and adulterers rushing from the thresh* 
old of the house of sin and debauchery, as they would 
from the flames of hell ; liars, swearers, and blasphem- 
ers setting their finger upon their lips, lest they should 
perish before the evil word was fully pronounced ; 
thieves, misers, and extortioners, flinging away their 
darling profits, lest they should be struck dead as they 
touched them. 

Then too, when men should see sentence executed 
speedily against evil works, they could not think of the 



4 



SERMON XIII. 



257 



sin without thinking of the punishment along with it. 
How cautious should we find them of venturing too near 
sin, even in their tempers and conversation : we should 
see a man turn pale whenever an evil thought or an 
evil wish came into his mind, for how could he tell but 
that the thunderbolt would fall at that moment, if he 
ventured to indulge it 1 Then should we see men 
watching and praying, that they might not fall into 
temptation, who never knew what it was to pray be- 
fore ; and, it is probable, that those who were witness- 
ing the wrath of God coming down every day upon the 
heads of sinners, in fire and brimstone, would be so 
sensible of their danger and their weakness, that they 
would renounce all trust in their own powers and their 
own righteousness, and seek for his glorious strength, 
who is able to shelter us from the storm and the tem- 
pest, and to give us the victory over sin, through our 
Lord Jesus Christ, and to make us " more than conquer- 
ors, through him who loved us, and gave himself for us." 

It seems to be very plain, that something like this 
would be the case if God were to interfere every day to 
execute sentence upon evil works. Now mark the 
difference : only observe with what perfect ease men 
can bring themselves to indulge in sin, as a matter of 
common and ordinary occurrence, as naturally as they 
partake of their sleep or their meals : and they go into 
the way of temptation, and approach the brink and the 
borders of sin, and say, there is no danger ! 

Now what can be the reason of this astonishing dif- 
ference ? For every man seems to think that he would 
refrain from sin if he knew that at that instant he should 
stand the consequences. What can be the reason of 
this difference 1 Is it that men have calmly made up 
their minds, after enjoying the pleasures of sin for a 
season, to resign themselves quietly and contentedly to 
the " Worm that never dieth, and the flame that is never 
quenched V This can hardly be the reason : it must 
be something else — and what is it 1 The Psalmist has 
informed us in few words : " The wicked hath said in 

22* 



258 SERMON XIII. 

his heart, Thou wilt not require it." He does not be- 
lieve that God will fulfil what he has declared ; — he 
does not say so with his outward lips, but he says it in 
his heart. With his outward lips he says, —It is all 
very true, the sentence is gone forth ; he is a God that 
will by no means clear the guilty : the soul that sin- 
neth, it shall die : and " cursed is every one that con- 
tinued not in the law." It is also true, that " God is 
not a man, that he should lie, nor the son of man, that 
he should repent ; hath he said, and shall he not do it 1" 
It would be rather a bold thing for a man to say, in the 
face of all this, that God would not require it. One 
would think we might take God's word for more than 
this ; and yet so it is, that a man, because he does not 
see sentence executed against an evil work, either in 
the case of others or in his own, because he does not 
hear and see God's justice every day in thunder and 
lightning, begins to think that God only wants to fright- 
en him by such sentences. There is a chance that God 
may not be in earnest : and upon this chance he 
plunges in, body and soul. 

It may be well to spend a little time in considering 
this case. Now, before we go a step further, one sim- 
ple question might decide the business. What do you 
think does that man deserve, who ventures his eternal 
soul upon any chance 1 Make the chance as great and 
as plausible as you please : suppose, if you like, that 
God had never passed regular sentence upon sin ; had 
never published and registered his wrath, and that there 
was only a confused murmur through mankind, a light 
whisper now and then stirring in the world, that there 
was sentence to be executed against the soul of every 
man that doeth evil, — that there was a hell of torment 
for the unrighteous and ungodly : suppose a man had 
only a night's dream to such an effect : let us be our- 
selves the judges, — what would that man deserve who 
ventured his eternal soul upon such a chance ? Would 
not any man, who held it so cheap as to let it take its 
chance (be that chance great or small,) have already 



SERMON XIIL $59 

sold and forfeited it? The mere fact, that he allows 
any thing like chance in such a concern, is enough to 
turn the chance into certainty — certainty of punishment « 

But, in the next place, let us consider for a little 
what is the chance that any sinner now sets up against 
the sentence pronounced by the God of Truth. It is, — • 
that sentence is not executed speedily ; — that he has 
sinned, and no thunder-bolt has fallen, no blow was 
struck ; — that he has seen his neighbours sin, and that 
then too no thunderbolt has fallen, and no blow was 
struck. Now let us examine this chance for a moment, 
and we shall be surprised to rind that, even leaving all 
J the threats and denunciations of Scripture out of the 
account, and taking the world as we see it and as we 
have read its history, there is new proof that sentence 
will be executed in the end. Now, to perceive this, 
observe that in many cases sentence has been executed 
against " evil works." 

Look to the flood : " When God saw that the wick- 
edness of man was great upon the earth, and that every 
imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil 
continually, he said, I will destroy man, whom I have 
created, from the face of the earth, both man and 
beast, and the creeping thing, and the fowls of the air ; 
for it repenteth me that I have made them ;" and ac- 
cordingly the flood came down upon the world of the 
ungodly. 

Then look to Sodom and Gomorrah: "Because the 
cry of Sodom and Gomorrah was great, and their sin 
very grievous, therefore the Lord rained down brim- 
stone and fire out of heaven." Look next to Korah, 
Dathan, and Abiram : " Behold, they rebelled against 
the Lord, and against Moses and Aaron his servants, and 
and the earth opened her mouth, and swallowed them up,, 
all that appertained to them." 

Look next to the sentence upon the blasphemer : 
" The son of an Israelitish woman, in a quarrel with 
one of the men of Israel, blasphemed the Lord and 
cursed ; and they put him in ward, that the mind of the 
Lord might be shewed them ; and the Lord spake unto 



260 SERMON XIII. 

Moses, saying, Bring forth him that hath cursed, with- 
out the camp, and Jet all that heard him lay their hands 
upon his head, and let all the congregation stone him ; 
and they brought forth him that had cursed, and stoned 
him with stones." 

Look next to the man who broke the Sabbath : " And 
the Lord said unto Moses, the man shall surely be put 
to death ; all the congregation shall stone him with 
stones without the camp ; and they stoned him that he 
died." 

Look next to the fornicators, " of which there fell in 
one day three and twenty thousand ;" cut off in their 
iniquities; their numbers could not save them. Look, 
in fact, at the whole Jewish dispensation,, where the 
Almighty often made bare his arm, and executed sen- 
tence speedily. 

But look next to the Christian dispensation,. and behold 
the guilty pair standing before the Apostles : " And 
though they came with their right hands full of gifts, 
yet they came with a lie upon their lips ; and the mo- 
ment it was uttered, they fell down and gave up the 
ghost." And turn your eyes next to Herod, arrayed in 
royal apparel, sitting upon his throne, and making an 
oration to the people ; and hark ! the people are shout- 
ing, and saying, " It is the voice of a God !" — and 
while they are shouting, the angel of the Lord had smote 
him. 

Look next to your own observation and experience ; 
and there alone you will find sufficient proof that, in 
many cases, sentence upon evil works has been execut- 
ed speedily. The course of nature, and the constitu- 
tion of society, have been so ordained by the wisdom 
and the justice of the Almighty, that the crime often 
brings the punishment along with it. The strong arm 
of the law often seizes the malefactor while his crime 
is still fresh upon him, and consigns him at once to 
death and infamy. 

Then, in the next place, God often makes drunkards 
and profligates their own executioners ; murdering their 



SERMON XIII. 



261 



own bodies, — wasting and withering them with surfeit 
and disease, and making their days few and evil ; sick 
of life, and afraid of death, and crawling into their 
graves before their time. Others execute sentence up- 
on themselves, by wasting their substance in riotous 
living, until they become the guests and companions of 
the swine, and men begin to pity and. despise them. 
And sometimes the sons become the executioners of their 
fathers, — and men propagate sin from generation to ge- 
neration, and see their own vices improved and multi- 
plied in their own children, who return them back their 
own iniquities, with interest, into their bosom, and 
" bring down their grey hairs with sorrow to the grave." 

And in every man's breast there is an executioner — 
that he generally contrives to set asleep ; but sometimes 
there comes a shock that rouses it from its slumber, 
and then it begins to lash him and sting him, and smite 
him upon the heart ; so that we may perceive that in 
many instances (more perhaps than we at first supposed) 
sentence is executed speedily, 

Now we are prepared to consider the chance upon 
which the sinner relies when he sins, and says in his 
heart, " Thou wilt not require it." The chance is this : 
I know that sentence is gone forth against every evil 
work, and that it is pronounced by the God of the 
Truth ; but I have sinned — often sinned, and so have 
my neighbours, and the earth did not open her jaws, 
neither did fire and brimstone come down from heaven, 
nor did I feel any bad effect arising from it, and there- 
fore I have a chance that God will not execute sentence 
at all. 

Now look at this chance. We have just seen that 
sentence is in many cases executed, yet, strange as it 
may appear, this very imperfection seems to be the 
strongest possible proof that, in the next world, ven- 
geance will be fulfilled to the uttermost. For observe, 
if we found that every man in this life received just 
what he deserved, and every evil work always brought 
swift punishment along with it, what should we natu- 



262 SERMON XIII. 

rally conclude? There is no future punishment in store : 
I see nothing wanting, every man has already received 
the due reward of his works ; every thing is already 
complete, and, therefore, there is nothing to be done in 
the next world. 

Or if, on the other hand, there were no punishment 
visited upon sin at all in this world, we might be inclin- 
ed to say, ' Tush ! God hath forgotten:' he never in- 
terferes amongst us ; we have no proof of his hatred of 
sin, or of his determination to punish it ; he is gone 
away far from us, and has left us to follow our own 
wills and imaginations. So that if sentence were either 
perfectly executed upon the earth, or not executed at 
all, we might have some reason for saying, that there 
was a chance of none in a future world. But now it is 
imperfectly executed ; just so much done, as to say, 
"You are watched, — my eye is upon you: I neither 
slumber nor sleep ; and my vengeance slumbereth not.' 
And yet, at the same time, there is so little done, that 
a man has to look into eternity for the accomplishment, 

These occasional visitations of God's wrath, — these 
sentences that sinners are often obliged to execute upon 
themselves-these judgments that sometimes fall and burst 
among us, come often enough to tell us, that there is punish* 
ment ; but so seldom, as to prove that it is yet to come. 
They seem to be rather given as evidences, than &sfid~ 
fitments of the wrath of God ; rather as a sign, than a 
part; just as earthquakes and volcanic eruptions only 
serve to show us what fires are burning and labouring 
in the bowels of the earth. The flames of hell seem to 
break out sometimes before their time among men in 
earthly judgments, — to warn them of judgments to come. 

This is the sinner's chance, — that, even if that Bible 
which speaks to him terrible things were a falsehood, 
the very course of nature and the current of human af- 
fairs furnish the strongest possible proof of — judgment 
to come. " Out of thine own mouth wilt thou be con- 
demned ;' ; — thine own excuse will be thy condemna- 
tion. And which of us has not made this excuse? 



SERMON XIII. 26 3 

Which of us has not often said, in his heart, " Thou 
wilt not require it ;" and sinned in the face of the sen- 
tence registered against ail iniquity, — in the face of the 
sentence registered against fornication, uncleanness, 
inordinate affection, evil concupiscence, and covetous- 
ness, which is idolatry, — against anger, wrath, malice, 
blasphemy, filthy communication, — in the face of the 
sentence registered against all those that forget God T 
But you will say, — Surely God is a merciful God ! Are 
v/e not told that he is full of mercies and loving kind- 
nesses, that his mercy rejoiceth against judgment, that 
he has sworn, as he liveth, " that he hath no pleasure 
in the death of the sinner ?" True : his mercy is indeed 
boundless and astonishing ; amazing, beyond what "eye 
hath seen, or ear heard, or hath entered into the heart 
of man to conceive." But how has that mercy been 
shewn ? By visiting sentence to the very uttermost. He 
did not fling us his mercy indolently from his throne ; 
but he executed sentence to the very uttermost upon 
his only begotten Son. His mercy does not consist in 
extinguishing his justice, but in executing it upon the 
head of the Son in whom he was well-pleased. Awful 
mercy ! terrible forgiveness ! mercy that we must not 
dare to trifle with. 

Let us be ourselves the judges : if any man makes 
this mercy an argument for sin, what new punishment, 
what fresh torments, how many times must the furnace 
be heated for that man, — for him who dares to say, be- 
cause the Lord Jesus has died for me, I will follow my 
iniquities! — for him who would thus make Christ the 
minister of sin ! That blessed mercy — that glorious mani- 
festation of infinite love, was always Used in Scripture 
as an argument for repentance, for holiness, and for all 
good ; but any man that curses God's blessing, by turn- 
ing it into an argument for continuing in sin, — how is 
he described in Scripture 1 He is " The enemy of the 
Cross of Christ ;" and " He crucifies the Son of God 
afresh, and puts him to an open shame 1" It had been 
"good for that man that he had never been born." 



264 



SERMON XIII. 



Every hour of sin that you add to your life, under this 
dispensation, is gathering over your head — in judgment. 
The goodness of God, in not cutting you off with your 
sins still green and fresh, is turning every day into wrath. 
For what says the apostle 1 " Despisest thou the rich- 
es of his goodness, and forbearance, and long-suffering, 
not knowing that the goodness of God leadeth thee to 
repentance ;" but, after thy hardness and impenitent heart 
" Treasurest up wrath against the day of wrath, and re- 
velation of the righteous judgment of God?" Here you see 
two things : first, that the goodness of God, in bearing 
with you thus long, in not blotting ,you out from the 
face of the earth while you were engaged in the last sin 
that you committed, was leading you to repentance : it 
cannot lead to mercy but through repentance : secondly, 
you see that every time you neglected and refused, 
" you have been treasuring up wrath against the day of 
wrath." There is a treasury of vengeance in heaven : 
and day by day, and hour by hour, you have been cast- 
ing in your mite. When will your cup be full ? Per- 
haps at this moment it may be overflowing ; perhaps 
the plain, simple warning that you hear this day may 
be the last that the Lord God will ever vouchsafe to 
your soul. This at least is certain, — that the next time 
you return to your sin it will be in deliberate defiance 
of the wrath of the Almighty. Who shall say, whether 
you will be allowed to make the trial a second time 1 
Probably your cup may then be full— and he may strike 
you dead upon the spot. Or if not, he may let you live 
as a monument of his vengeance ; and as Pharaoh was 
allowed to live, after he had resisted all the means of 
grace, that the Lord might openly manifest his power 
and his justice upon him, God may prolong your life 
only that men may see a sinner gasping without hope 
upon his death-bed, — and, as they look upon the horrors 
of your dying countenance, they may smite their breasts 
and say, " God be merciful to me a sinner 1" 



SERMON XIV. 



1 John, iv. 10. 

Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved 
us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our 
sins. 

If God had waited until we loved him before he loved 
us, we should not have been assembled here this day 
to read the history of his mercies, and to humble our- 
selves before him, in astonishment at the multitude of 
his loving kindnesses. If God had waited until we loved 
him, before he loved us, we should never have known 
what it was to come together on a Sabbath morning, to 
talk of mercy and salvation, and the holy charity that 
binds us to God and to each other : we should be now 
bowing our heads before the works of our hands, and 
the inventions of our own imaginations : perhaps, at 
this instant, we should be met together to perform our 
impure and bloody ceremonies to the powers of dark- 
ness : the house which is now the Lord's tabernacle, 
and the place where his honour dwelleth, might be 
the temple in which we adored the God of intemperance 
and sensuality, or made our offerings to the wicked 
spirit that delighteth in war, violence, and revenge; 
or we might be nocking to the table of our evil god — 
not to eat the bread of life, or to drink from the foun- 
tains of the living water, but to sound his praises in 
festivals of drunkenness, riot, and indecency ; or we 
should be kneeling at his altar — not to offer the sacri- 

23 



266 



SERMON XIV. 



fice of a broken and a contrite heart, but to worship 
him with the knife, and with the blood of our fellow- 
creatures ; and, perhaps, we should now be preparing 
the children that we loved as our own souls, to pass 
through the fire of sacrifice that was kindled in his 
honour, that we might satisfy his fury and avert his 
indignation. 

It is true, the very mention of these things may now 
shock our feelings, and we may fancy, if we please, 
that no possible conjuncture of circumstances could 
have reduced us to such crimes and enormities : but 
such was the state of the world at the time that the 
Son of God came down upon the earth, — and we shall 
not find it very easy to prove, either that we are a supe- 
rior race of beings to the men of those days, or that the 
natural progress of society has caused the difference 
between them and ourselves. 

The men of those days were our superiors in many 
of the arts of civilised life, and it was then four thou- 
sand years since the creation of the world. The world 
had time enough to have learned how to love God, if it 
could have loved hjm : but " When they knew God, 
they glorified him not as God ; and their foolish heart 
was darkened." They had suffered the knowledge of 
God to be blotted out of their minds, and of course the 
love of God had disappeared from their hearts. Their 
religion only had shewed itself in their festivals, — in 
drunkenness, impurity, and blood : in the common 
course of their lives he was forgotten ; and, by the ter- 
rible ceremonies by which they attempted to appease 
his wrath, or conciliate his good-will, they proved that 
they regarded him as their enemy. So that if God 
had only allowed men to go on in the way which they 
had chosen for themselves, if he had not turned to them 
before they turned to him, we should have been now 
sitting in darkness and the shadow of death, sinning on 
to our ruin, without a thought upon the God whom we 
were offending. 

But, indeed, it is not necessary to look back to past 



SERMON XIV. 267 

ages in order to make this gloomy discovery. If a man 
looks into his own heart but for one moment, he may 
soon perceive that if God had loved us it cannot be be- 
cause we have first loved him* 

Among all the natural passions and affections of the 
human heart, where is the love of God to be found 1 
We lovo parent and child, — we love friends and coun- 
try, — we love riches and honour, — we love sin in all 
its shapes, and we embrace it with all our souls ; these 
affections take their root in our nature, they grow wild 
in our hearts, and scarcely require cultivation. But, 
instead of finding religion growing naturally within, 
only observe with what care and watching and anxiety 
it must be cherished, and refreshed, and preserved ; 
and if once neglected, yea, but for a little, how soon it 
begins to wither and decay ! Any of the other affections 
of our heart it would be almost impossible to get rid of: 
but to acquire and cultivate a spirit of religion, is the 
slow and patient work of earnest watchfulness and 
persevering humility. Where is the man amongst us 
who would venture to put up to God such a prayer as 
this, — Regard me as I have regarded you ; treat me as 
I have treated you 1 For how have we regarded him ? 
how have we treated him 1 Really, do we look upon 
him more as a friend or as an enemy 1 How often do 
we wish that he was far away, and that his eye was 
not open upon our hearts, and that he did not hear the 
words of our lips, or witness the deeds of our lives ? 
How often would it have been a relief to us to think 
that he was not everlastingly present amongst us 1 
Does not our conscience often bear testimony that we 
love the things he hates, by the effort we make to for- 
get and to banish him whenever we wish to give way to 
our sinful propensities, or to indulge in pride, covetous- 
ness, drunkenness, sensuality, or revenge 1 Is it not a 
confession that he is at war with those things that we 
love, and that he who loves sin cannot love God ? So 
true is the word of God, which says, " He that loveth 
j&e keepeth my commandments,' 5 



268 SERMON XIV. 

It is too plain, that if God had cared as little for us as 
we cared for God we should have been long since out- 
cast, forsaken, and forgotten : but " herein is love, not 
that we loved him, but that he loved us, and sent his 
Son to be the propitiation for our sins." And thus it 
is stated by St. Paul : " God commended his love to 
us, in that while we were yet sinners Christ died for 
us :" and again, " When we were enemies, we were 
reconciled to God by the death of his Son." In these 
passages we perceive that it means the same thing to 
be a sinner — to be the enemy of God— and not to love 
him ; and yet for these sinners, for these his enemies, 
he sent his own Son to be the propitiation for their sins. 

Herein is love ! The apostle seems to pronounce 
upon this as if there was no other love in all the world 
besides, — as if every thing like love was swallowed up 
in this boundless profusion of mercies. It is extraor- 
dinary with what cold and composed feelings we can 
read and think of this extraordinary sacrifice. It is no 
doubt impossible to comprehend its full extent ; per- 
haps it is the employment of blessed spirits, forages and 
ages to come — aye, or for all eternity, to make new 
discoveries in the love of God and the death of the Re- 
deemer. Grander knowledge, — new blessings, — fresh 
features, from this wonderful sacrifice, may be shewing 
themselves to the spirits of just men made perfect at 
every moment, world without end. They are " things 
which the angels desire to look into." 

But God has given us, perhaps, the fullest idea of it 
that we are capable of conceiving, when he tells us that 
he was Ms Son — his only Son. It is as if he desired 
every one of us to go to his own heart, and find out who 
is the being upon the earth that is dearest to its affec- 
tions, — husband, wife, or only child ; the person whom 
we regarded with the fondest love and the most unboun- 
ded delight ; the person in whom your whole soul 
seems to be wrapped up,— in whom you almost live, 
and move, and have your being ; and to imagine this 
object of your hopes and affections dashed from a state 



SERMON XIV. 



269 



*>f happiness, and flung helpless into the midst of ene- 
mies and persecutors ; become " despised and rejected 
of men, a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief;" 
and at length brought as a lamb to the slaughter, and 
then descending into the grave with torture, insult, and 
infamy. God himself seems to teach us to regard it 
in this point of view, for he said unto Abraham, " Take 
now* thy son, — thine only son, Isaac, whom thou lovest." 
He repeats it, as if for the purpose of cutting the fa- 
ther's heart, and giving it a new stab at every word of 
fondness. " Take now thy son, — thine only son, Isaac 
whom thou lovest, and offer him for a burnt-offering up- 
on one of the mountains that I will tell thee of." Abra- 
ham rose up, and took Isaac his son, and went into the 
place of which God had told him. Then, on the way, 
a conversation occurs, in which every word that the son 
speaks is calculated to make the father's heart bleed 
freshly. It would be an insult to tell a father what 
were Abraham's feelings when he bound his .son, and 
took the knife in his hand. At that moment, however, 
the angel of the Lord called out of heaven, and bade 
him stay his hand. But when the Son of God bore his 
cross to the spot of agony and shame, and was laid 
bleeding upon the altar, no guardian angel descended 
to relieve his sufferings ; and when he cried, " My 
God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me ?" the whole 
host of heaven stood still : no voice of consolation was 
heard, and no minister of mercy descended to save his 
Son, — his only Son, whom he loved. 

Such is the idea that God has given us of his love ; 
but still it is imperfect, for it seems as if every thing re- 
lating to God was infinite. His power is infinite ; and 
we should judge but poorly of its greatness if we mea- 
sured it by human power. In like manner his wisdom 
is infinite : and we should never be able to conceive its 
extent by comparing it with the greatest wisdom of man. 
So also may we conclude of his love. The sufferings 
of Christ appear to contain something in them indescri- 
bable to the human imagination, and unfathomable to 

23* 



270 SERMON XIV. 

human discovery. His mysterious agony in the garden, 
the weight of our sins upon his soul, and the fearful ex- 
clamation, " My God ! my God ! why hast thou forsak- 
en me !" convey an idea of suffering, that we neither 
do nor can comprehend. Such is the love of God man- 
ifested upon the cross, — the love of God manifest in 
the flesh ! 

But, we may say, where was the necessity of all this 
vast profusion of suffering, — this expenditure of means, 
— this astonishing machinery of redemption ? Could 
not God have forgiven us at a word? Now, only consid- 
er what idea it is we form of God, when we imagine 
that forgiveness is so very easy a matter. We conceive 
him to be an arbitrary and capricious Being, who can 
make laws and break them at random, and fling his par- 
don to his creatures carelessly from his throne. Is this 
a worthy idea of him "who cannot lie, and who cannot 
repent V Recollect that mercy, with us, means the re- 
versing of a law, the changing of an established order 
of things : our very idea of mercy implies an imperfec- 
tion in the law, in the decision upon the law, or in the 
execution of the law. If human laws were perfect, or 
human judges infallible, where would be the room for 
mercy? It was a question reserved for the wisdom of Al- 
mighty God alone, to prove how justice and mercy could 
be reconciled ; to hold forth forgiveness to the offender 
without violating, relaxing, or suspending that law, 
which is " holy, and just, and good." Accordingly, 
we find that, upon the cross, the violation of that law 
was visited to the uttermost ; that " he bore our sins, 
and carried our iniquities," — that " the chastisement 
of our peace was upon him :"' and thus we are told, 
in the passage before us, that " the love of God was 
manifested in sending his Son to be the propitiation for 
our sins : and again, " God was in Christ, reconciling 
the world unto himself." 

It is a terrible truth, which men would do well to re- 
collect more than they do, that the same cross shews 
God's hatred for sin as well as his love for the sinner ; 



SERMON XIV. 271 

the same cross shews that he cannot forgive iniquity, 
and yet that he was willing to visit it upon his own Son 
for our sakes : it shews us his wrath and his love, and 
the one appears to be the measure of the other. We 
have been this day endeavouring to fathom his love, — 
and have found it impossible ; and yet the very immen- 
sity of that love seems to consist in averting wrath, that 
is equally boundless and inconceivable. Alas I alas ! 
we deceive ourselves strangely by fancying that it is an 
easy thing for God to forgive sin. Consider well what 
it is that makes it such an easy thing for you to commit 
sin ; and you will find that it is because you fancy it an 
easy thing for God to forgive it. 

The great and fearful question with every man 
amongst us is, " Has the blood of Jesus Christ cleansed 
him from all sin ?" or, shall he himself abide the awful 
consequences in the eternal world 1 For, as surely as 
God is true, one or other of these must be the case. 
The word of God supplies us with the means of 
judgment, — " If any man be in Christ, he is a neAV 
creature." It seems to be founded upon a principle 
plain and obvious to any man's common sense, — if we 
need no change, we need no mercy. 

He now stands at the door and knocks, and invites 
you to acknowledge yourselves his at his table, and if 
we come with but half the good-will with which he in- 
vites, and waits to receive us, we are blessed and .hap- 
py beings ! Let us beware how we turn our back upon 
it ; or how we take it unworthily. We must come to 
that table, forsaking our sins, which were so hateful in 
the sight of heaven that they crucified the Son of God, 
and forsaking all claims upon the ground of our own im- 
perfect righteousness. Let us " make mention of his 
name only ;" and may we so share the fellowship of his 
sufferings that we may know the power of his resurrec- 
tion ! Amen. 



SERMON XV. 



1 Corinthians, x. 13. 

There hath no temptation taken you but such as is com- 
mon to man : but God is faithful, who will not suffer 
you to be tempted above that ye are able ; but will with 
the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may 
be able to bear it. 

Perhaps nothing can exceed the efforts of God to en- 
able us to overcome temptation, except our own en- 
deavours to disappoint them. There would be some- 
thing amusing, if it were not too terrible to amuse us, 
in observing the riches of our resources, and the curi- 
ous variety of expedients which we have invented for 
trifling with temptation ; forgetting, that to trifle with 
temptation is to trifle with God. 

Some of us plunge into it headlong, — with a sort of 
heedless and frantic desperation, never stopping to look 
to the right hand or to the left, even for the shadow of 
an excuse ; shutting our eyes as we hurry on, and ima- 
gining there is no danger, because we do not see it ; 
flying so rapidly from one temptation to another, that 
there is no time for thought or reflection between ; un- 
til at last we arrive, full speed, at the brink of the grave ! 
There is no stopping then ; the force with which we ar- 
rived hurries us onward of its own accord ; and we are 
hurled to the bottom, with the weight of all the sins we 
have committed bearing us down with greater fury. 



SERMON XV. 273 

There are others amongst us, who first, without any 
consideration, comply with the temptation, and then 
stop to look about them for the excuse : they first com- 
mit the sin, not well knowing at the time what defence 
they can make, but trusting to chance, or to their own 
ingenuity, for finding one afterwards. 

There are others, more cautious and circumspect, 
who first look round for an excuse ; but the moment 
they see any thing that bears any resemblance to one, 
they are perfectly satisfied. They dare not look that 
way again, lest a second thought should undeceive 
them : it is an excuse as it stands, — but another glance, 
or one moment's closer inspection, might shew them 
that all was false and hollow ; and, rather than be thus 
undeceived, they take it at the first view, and surren- 
der to the temptation, hoping that, because Ihey had de- 
ceived their own hearts, they have deceived One " that 
is greater than their hearts." However, it may be well 
to study them a little more attentively, as one day or oth- 
er we shall have to look them in the face. 

All the excuses which we are in the habit of making 
appear to be reducible to two classes ; and, what is very 
remarkable, they contradict each other. One of these 
dangerous apologies is, that many of our particular temp- 
tations are, in their very nature, different from those of 
other men. We often persuade ourselves that we are 
placed in circumstances totally different from those in 
which other human beings are involved ; and often fan- 
cy that nature has given us passions and propensities 
from which the generality of mankind are entirely free, 
or by which they are much less powerfully actuated. 
Hence we flatter ourselves that our situation is so oriffi- 
nal, and the temptations to which we are exposed so 
unlike those which human nature is generally called 
upon to encounter, that the transgression into which it 
leads us is something new — that it stands distinct and 
alone ; and we can scarcely bring ourselves to think 
that God will class it with the ordinary violations of his 
law, or sentence it to the same condemnation. Thus 



274 SERMON XV. 

we often go on, imagining that many of our transgres- 
sions are exceptions to those of the generality of men, 
and that we have made out a new case for ourselves in 
the annals of sin, to plead before the throne of God. 

This is one of our excuses ; but what is the other 1 
The common frailty of our nature ; the plea that all men 
do the same ; that our sins are such as the bulk of man- 
kind commit ; and that we only gratify the passions of 
human nature, or its common weaknesses, in complying 
with such temptations. Now, would it not be enough 
to shew the emptiness and silliness of these apologies, — 
to consider, that there is not a single sin that we could 
not justify by such means ?.If the temptation seems tobe 
peculiar to us — not such as human nature is in general 
subject to, the first will serve. If it be one to which 
the generality of mankind are exposed, the second 
comes to our relief: so that we are certain that if the 
one tails the other will succeed. One would imagine 
that this would be enough. But the passage before us 
meets them both. As to the. first excuse, that there are 
certain temptations peculiar to ourselves, and which we 
do not share in common with our fellow-creatures, it 
says, " There hath no temptation taken you, but such 
as is common to man." But, even leaving Scripture out 
of the question, what reason have we to suppose that we 
are an exception to the general laws of human nature 1 
Should we not rather conclude, that men who partake 
of the same nature as ourselves may be subject to the 
very same temptations 1 We are all inclined to con- 
ceal " the sins which most easily beset us :' ; therefore, 
without our observation, others may be exposed to those 
very trials which we conceive exclusively our own, and 
may, at that instant, be making the very same excuse, 
There is no doubt that men differ very much in their 
character and constitution, and the ingredients of hu* 
man nature are variously mixed in different beings. 
The ruling propensity in one man may be avarice ; in 
another, " evil concupiscence" and debauchery ; in an* 
other., gluttony and drunkenness ; in another^ ambition \ 



SERMON XV. 275 

in another, the predominant passion may be, a fondness 
for mischief, for riot, and blood ; while another may be 
governed by a sottish indolence, or a wild inconstancy. 
But, as the apostle declares (after enumerating the gifts 
of the Holy Spirit to different men) that " all these 
workethoneandthe self-same spirit" — the spirit of right- 
eousness, — so may it be said of these passions, all these 
worketh the one and the self-same spirit — the spirit of 
sinful human nature. They are the common elements of 
our nature, only differently mixed ; but it is generally 
in defence of the chief and ruling passion that we urge 
the first exc use, which we mentioned above : and thus 
every man would yield to the passion to which he was 
most attache d, and would embrace the sin he most loved. 
Every man would thus have chosen one part of the law 
which he might break — that part which he was always 
most inclined to break ; and, therefore, the very part 
which he was bound to be most watchful in observing. 
There chiefly, and because it is our ruling passion, and 
that which exalts itself most against the love of God, 
lies our perilous and fiery trial, where our greatest re- 
sistance should be exerted. 

There remains now only the second excuse — the 
frailty of human nature ; the common tendency to sin 
which we all feel. Alas ! this indeed is true : but it is 
equally true, that there is " a God of purer eyes than to 
behold iniquity ;" a God which has said, " The soul 
that sinneth, it shall die ;" a God whom, without holi- 
ness, no man shall behold. Yet, even with the sense 
of this present to our minds and our hearts, how totally 
unable do we feel ourselves to make that great and con- 
tinued exertion — to effect that complete revolution in 
heart, in conversation, and in practice, which shall 
qualify us to stand before the holiness of God ! How 
totally unable do we feel ourselves to make any advance, 
even under the consciousness that we are bound by his 
command ; bound by our own consciences, — our own 
hopes and fears ; bound by the thoughts of death and 
life ; bound by the prospect of misery or immortality, to 



276 



SERMON XV. 



lay all our earthly affections at his feet, and consecrate 
our very beings to his service ! How feebly do we at- 
tempt to struggle through the throng and crowd of 
temptations that beset and besiege us on every side, and 
that stand between us and our God ! The passage be- 
fore us, in reply to our first excuse, declared that there 
hath no temptation taken us that is not common to man ; 
but what says it to our second, — the frailty of our unfor- 
tunate nature ? " God is faithful, who will not suffer 
you to be tempted above that ye are able." Here, with 
our warning is our great consolation. It is not merely 
that God will assist us, but that he will not suffer us to be 
tempted above that we are able. It is uttered in all the 
majesty of conscious omnipotence. " I will not suffer 
you to be tempted above that ye are able." It is as if 
he had promised to work a miracle rather than allow us 
to be overpowered ; it is as if he would shake the pow- 
ers of heaven and earth rather than that his promise 
should not be performed ; that he would check the 
course of nature, that he would stop the sun in his ca- 
reer, if he were found to bring us into dangers out of 
which there was no escape ; that he would arrest the 
profligate current of human affairs ; that he would say 
to the tide of temptations, if it were pouring in too bold- 
ly upon us, " Thus far shalt thou come, and no fur* 
ther." 

But let us fully understand the meaning and the na- 
ture of this glorious promise. We may observe then, 
in the first place, it is not a promise of grace which ex- 
cuses us from resisting temptation, but of grace, by 
which we are enabled to overcome it. So that while, 
by, the blood of Christ, and by that alone, we are saved, 
and while no human being shall be able to say, he has 
earned salvation unto himself, we are ten times, and ten 
times more, bound to wage war with the world, the 
flesh, and the devil, as the unworthy sinners whom 
Christ has redeemed, than as the presumptuous Phari- 
see, who proudly counts over his works and his alms as 
the price of his salvation. For we are endowed with 



SERMON XV. 277 

new motives and new strength to resist it which he, 
** trusting in himself," never could experience. In 
fact, God does every thing for us, short of what is in- 
consistent with his own nature, which revolts at all im- 
purity and sin. For our sakes, he sends his Son on 
earth, to a life of sorrow and persecution, and to a 
death of agony and shame, in order to redeem us from 
the punishment of sin : he sends his Holy Spirit, to pu- 
rify us from its corruption : he utters prophecy to warn 
us : he works miracles to convince us : every thing, in 
fact, that is not incompatible with the fixed principle of 
his nature ; " Without holiness, no man shall see the 
Lord." 

The second thing to be observed in this promise, is 
the inseparable connexion of divine grace with human 
exertion. He does not say that he will not suffer us to 
be overcome, but that " He will not suffer us to be tempt- 
ed above that we are able." Here we see the genuine 
operation of the grace of God. Human exertion with- 
out it is hopeless, powerless, ineffectual. Dependent 
upon our own exertion alone, we should be tempted 
above that we are able. On the other hand, the grace 
of God is given in vain, unless we embrace it humbly, 
unless we hold it fast in our hearts, unless we wield it 
in our hands. It does not actually vanquish the temp- 
tation ; but it clothes us for the battle in the armour of 
righteousness. Therefore, with watching and praying, 
and with fear and trembling, let us await the approach 
of every temptation that we see bearing down upon our 
souls. Inspired by the animating assurance, " That 
God is faithful, and will not suffer us to be tempted 
above that we are able ;" and with the awful sense that 
God is on our side, and that we must not dare to desert 
his standard when he promises us victory, let us advance 
to fight the good fight of faith. But let us march with 
slow and thoughtful steps, and an humble and resigned 
confidence, to meet the attack of sin and death, under 
the shadow of his holiness, who would often have gath-» 

24 



£78 SERMON XV. 

ered us under his protecting wing, and we would not. 
Thus will this poor worm, who once crawled along the 
earth, yielding, with a faint heart and a trembling con- 
science, to every sin that assailed him, " become more 
than conqueror through him that loved him." 



APPENDIX. 



It may be a matter of surprise to some readers that Mr. 

W had not exercised his poetical talents upon religioua 

subjects : bat the fact was, that he seemed to shrink from 
such themes as too lofty for his genius — too pure and too aw- 
ful for what he humbly thought his insufficient powers. The 
standard of excellence which his imagination had raised was 
so high, that no effort of his own could give him satisfaction. 

He had sometimes entertained the idea that religious sub- 
jects might be profitably introduced in songs adapted to na- 
tional music, which might thus be made a vehicle of popular 
instruction : how much he felt the delicacy and difficulty of 
such a task, will appear from the judicious observations con- 
tained in a letter to a pious friend who had sent him some ver- 
ses written with that view. 

" mi dear , 

* # * <c The poems upon which you desire my opinion 
seem to be the production of a truly spiritual mind — a mind 
deeply exercised in experimental religion, which sees every 
object through a pure and holy medium, and turns every 
thing it contemplates into devotion. But their very excel- 
lence in this respect seems, in the present instance, to con- 
stitute their leading defect. Their object, if I understand it 
aright, is to make popular music a channel by which relir 
gious feeling may be diffused through society, and thus, at 
the same time, to redeem the national music from the profane^ 
ness and licentiousness to which it has been prostituted. As 
to the first object : the natural language of a spiritual man, 
which would remind one of the like spirit of much of his in- 
ternal experience, would be not only uninteresting, but abso- 
lutely unintelligible to the generality of mankind. He speaks 
of hopes and fears, of pleasures and pains, which they could 
only comprehend by having previously felt them. 



28° APPENDIX. 

You remember that it is said of the ' new song that was 
sung before the throne,' that no man could learn that song, 
save those that were redeemed from the earth : and therefore 
it often happens, that those who best understand that music, 
are more intelligible to heavenly than earthly beings : they 
are often better understood by angels than by men. The 
high degree of spirituality which they have attained often ren- 
ders it not only painful, but impossible, to accommodate them- 
selves to the ordinary feelings of mankind. They cannot 
stoop, even though it be to conquer. To the world, their ef- 
fusions are in an unknown language. In fact, they often take 
for granted the very work to be done ; they presuppose that 
communion of feeling and unity of spirit between themselves 
and the world which it is their primary object to produce ; 
and when ihey do not produce this efFect, they may even do 
mischief; for the spontaneous language of a religious mind 
is, generally speaking, revolting to the great mass of society : 
they shrink from it as they do from the Bible. 

Just consider all the caution, the judgment, and the skill, 
requisite in order to introduce religion profitably into gener- 
al conversation, and then you may conceive what will be the 
fate of a song — to which a man has recourse for amusement, 
and which he expects will appeal to his feelings — when he 
finds it employed on a subject to which he has not learnt to 
attach any idea of pleasure, and which speaks to feelings he 
never experienced. It is on this account I conceive that a 
song intended to make religion popular should not be entire- 
ly of a religious cast ; that it should take in as wide a range 
as any other song, should appeal to every passion and feeling 
of our nature not in itself sinful, — should employ all the 
scenery, the imagery, and circumstance of the songs of this 
world, while religion should be indirectly introduced, or deli- 
cately insinuated. I think we shall come to the same con- 
clusion if we consider the reformation of the national music 
as the primary object. The predominant feelings excited 
and expressed by our national airs, however exquisitely de- 
lightful, are manifestly human ; and it is evident that in order 
to do them justice we must follow the prevailing tone. The 
strain and ground-work of the words can hardly be spiritual ; 
but a gleam of religion might be every now and then taste- 
fully admitted, with the happiest efFect. But indeed it ap- 
pears so difficult, that in the whole range of poetry there does 
not occur to me, at present, an instance in which it has been 
successfully executed. The only piece* which I now recollect 

* The author probably would have also instanced the beautiful 
Scotch ballad " I'm wearing aw a', John," if it had occurred to his 
memory. — Editor. 



APPENDIX. 



281 



as at all exemplifying 1 my meaning" is Cowper's * Alexander 
Selkirk, 1 beginning, ' I am monarch of all I survey,' which 
I believe has never been set to music. It is not professedly 
religious; nay, the situation, the sentiments, and the feelings, 
are such as the commonest reader can at once conceive to 
be his own. It needs neither a spiritual man, nor a poet, nor 
a man of taste or of education, to enter into immediate sym- 
pathy with him : it is not until the fourth stanza (after he has 
taken possession of his reader) that he introduces a religious 
sentiment; to which, however, he had been gradually ascend- 
ing ; and even then accompanies and recommends it with 
what may, perhaps, be called the romantic and picturesque of 
religion, * the sound of the church-going bell,' &c. He then 
appears to desert the subject altogether, and only returns to 
it (as it were) accidentally — but with what beauty and effect ! 
in the last four lines. 

I am really struck with consternation at finding that I have 
been writing a review rather than giving an opinion, and must 
not dare to add another word, but to beg you will believe me 

Yours, &c. 

C. W." 



It may not be uninteresting to give the following speci- 
mens of his early, poetical powers upon scriptural subjects, 
which he displayed when a school-boy. 

JESUS RAISING LAZARUS. 
Silent and sad, deep gazing on the clay. 
Where Laz'rus breathless, cold, and lifeless lay, 
The Saviour stood : he dropp'd a heavenly tear, 
The dew of pity from a soul sincere : 
He heav'd a groan !— though large his cup of woe. 
Yet still for others' grief his sorrows flow ; 
He knew what pains must pierce a sister's heart, 
When death had sped his sharpest, deadliest dart. 
And seized a brother's life. Around they stand, 
Sisters and friends, a weeping, mournful band : — 
His prayer he raises to the blest abode, 
And mercy bears it to the throne of God : 
14 Lord ! thou hast always made thy Son thy care, 
Ne'er has my soul in vain preferr'd its prayer ; 
Hear now, O Father ! this thy flock relieve, — 

24* 



282 



APPENDIX. 

Dry thou their tears, and teach them to believe 
Thy power the sinking wretch from death can save, 
And burst the iron fetters of the grave : — 
Awake ! arise !" The healing words he spoke, 
And death's deep slumbers in a moment broke : 
Fate hears astonish'd,— trembles at the word, 
And nature yields, o'ercome by nature's Lord. 
Light peeps with glimmeri»g rays into his eyes ; 
With lingering paces misty darkness flies ; 
The pulse slow vibrates through the languid frame, 
The frozen blood renews the vital flame ; 
His body soon its wonted strength regains, 
And life returning rushes to his veins. — 
They look ! they start ! they look !— 'tis he, 'tis he .' 
They see him, — and yet scarce believe they see ! 
On Him — on Him they turn their thankful eyes, 
From whom such wond'rous benefits arise : 
On him they look, who, God and Man combin'd, 
Join'd mortal feelings with a heavenly mind : 
On Him their warm collected blessings pour'd ; 
As Man, they loved him— and as God, ador'd. 



PRIZE POEM. 

ON THE DEATH OF ABEL. 



In youthful dignity and lovely grace, 
With heaven itself reflected on his face, 
In purity and innocence array'd, 
The perfect work of God was Abel made. 
To him the fleecy charge his sire consign'd : 
An angel's figure with an angel's mind, 
In him his father ev'ry blessing view'd, 
And thought the joys of Paradise renew'd. 
But stern and gloomy was the soul of Cain ; 
A brother's virtue was the source of pain ; 
Malice and hate their secret wounds impart, 
And envy's vulture gnaws upon his heart : 
With discontented hand he turn'd the soil, 
And inly grieving, murmur'd o'er his toil. 



APPENDIX. 

Each with his off 'ring to the Almighty came, 
Their altars raised, and fed the sacred flame. 
Scarce could the pitying Abel bear to bind 
A lamb, the picture of his Master's mind ; 
Which to the pile with tender hand he drew, 
And wept, as he the bleating victim slew. 
Around, with fond regard the zephyr play'd, 
Nor dared disturb th' oblation Abel made. 
The gracious flames accepted, upward flew, 
The Lord received them, — for his heart was true. 
His first-reap'd fruits indignant Cain prepares, — 
But vain his sacrifice and vain his prayers, — 
For air were hollow : God and nature frown'd, 
The wind dispersed them, and the Lord disown'd. 
He looks behind — what flames around him rise ? 
** O hell ! 'tis Abel's, Abel's sacrifice ! 
Curst, hated sight ! another look would tear 
My soul with rage, would plunge me in despair J 
Still must each wish that Abel breathes be heard ; 
Still must I see his suit to mine preferr'd I 
Still must this darling of creation share 
His parents' dearest love, his Maker's care ; 
But Cain is doom'd his sullen hate to vent — 
Is doom'd his woes in silence to lament : — 
Why should the sound of Abel sound more dear, 
More sweet than Cain's unto my father's ear ? 
Each look, that once on me with pleasure glow'd, 
Each kiss, each smile, on Abel is bestow'd. 
He loves me, views me with sincere delight ; 
Yet, yet I hate him, yet 1 loathe his sight ! 
But why detest him ? why do I return 
Hate for his love,— his warm affection spurn ? 
Ah ! vain each effort, vain persuasion's art, 
While rancour's sting is fest'ring in my heart !" 
At this ill-fated moment when his rage 
Nor love could bind, nor reason could assuage, 
Young Abel came ; he mark'd his sullen woe, 
Nor in the brother could discern the foe. 
As down his cheeks the gen'rous sorrow ran, 
He gazed with fondness, and at length began : 



283 



284 APPENDIX. 

" Why low'rs that storm beneath thy clouded eye? 

Why would'st thou thus thy Abel's presence fly ? 

Turn thee, my brother ! view me laid thus low, 

And smooth the threat'ning terrors of thy brow. 

Have I offended ? is my fault so great, 

That truth and friendship cannot change thy hate ? 

Then tell me, Cain, Otell me all thy care ; 

O cease thy grief, or let thy Abel share." 

No tears prevail : his passions stronger rise ; 

Increasing fury flashes from his eyes ; 

At once, each fiend around his heartstrings twines, — 

At once, all hell within his soul combines, 

" Ah serpent !" — At the word he fiercely sprung, 

Caught th' accursed weapon, brandish'd, swung, 

And smote ! the stroke descended on his brow ; 

The suppliant victim sunk beneath the blow : 

The streaming blood distain'd his locks with gore— 

Those beauteous tresses, that were gold before : 

Nor could his lips a deep-drawn sigh restrain, 

Not for himself he sigh'd — he sigh'd for Cain : 

His dying eyes a look of pity cast, 

And beam'd forgiveness, ere they closed their last. 

The murd'rer view'd him with a vacant stare, — 

Each thought was anguish, and each look despair. 

" Abel, awake ! arise !" he trembling cried ; 

14 Abel, my brother !" — but no voice replied. 

At ev'ry call more madly wild he grew, 

Paler than he, whom late in rage he slew. 

In frighful silence o'er the corse he stood, 

And chain'd in terror, wonder'd at the blood. 

" Awake ! yet oh ! no voice, no smile, no breath ! 

O God, support me ! O should this be death ! 

O thought most dreadful ! how my blood congeals ! 

How ev'ry vein increasing horror feels ! 

How faint his visage, and how droops his head ! 

O God, he's gone ! — and I have done the deed !" 

Pierced with the thought, the fatal spot he flies, 

And, plunged in darkness, seeks a vain disguise. 

Eve, hapless Eve ! 'twas thine these woes to see, 

To weep thy own, thy children's misery ! 



APPENDIX. 

She, all unconscious, with her husband stray'd 

To meet her sons beneath their fav'rite shade : 

To them the choicest fruits of all her store, 

Delightful task ! a pleasing load she bore. 

While with maternal love she look'd around — 

Lo ! Abel, breathless, welt'ring on the ground ! 

She shrieked his name — 'twas all that she could say, 

Then sunk, and lifeless as her Abel lay. 

Not long the trance could all her senses seal, 

She woke too soon returning woe to feel. 

Those lips, that once gave rapture to her breast, 

Now cold in death, the afflicted mother press'd. 

Fix'd in the silent agony of woe, 

The father stood, nor comfort could bestow. 

Weep, wretched father ! hopeless mother, weep ! 

A long, long slumber Abel 's doom'd to sleep ! 

Wrapt in the tangling horrors of the wood, 

The murd'rer sought to fly himself and God. 

Night closed her welcome shades around his head, 

But angry conscience lash'd him as he fled. 

*' Here stretch thy limbs, thou wretch ! O may this blast 

Bear death, and may this moment be thy last ! 

May blackest night eternal hold her reign ; 

And may the sun forget to light the plain ! 

Ye shades, surround me ! darkness hide my sin ! 

'Tis dark without, but darker still within: 

O Abel ! O my brother ! could not all 

Thy love for me preserve thee from thy fall ! 

Why did not Heaven avert that deadly blow, 

That dreadful, hated wound, that laid thee low ! 

O I'm in hell I each breath, each blast alarms, 

And ev'ry madd'ning demon is in arms : 

The voice of God, the curse of Heav'n I hear ; 

The name of murder'd Abel strikes my ear, 

Rolls in the thunder, rustles in the trees, 

And Abel ! Abel ! murmurs in the breeze. 

Still fancy scares me with his dying groan, 

And clothes each scene in horrors not its own. 

Curst be that day, the harbinger of woes, 

When first my mother felt a mother's throes ; 

When sweetly smiling on my infant face, 



285 



286 



APPENDIX. 

She blest the firstling of a future race. 

O Death ! thou hidden, thou mysterious bane ! 

Can all thy terrors equal living pain ? — 

Yet still there lies a world beyond the grave, 

From whence no death, no subterfuge can save. 

Thou, God of Vengeance ! these my suff'rings see,- 

To all the God of Mercy, but to me ! 

O soothe the tortures of my guilty state, — 

Great is thy vengeance, but thy mercy great. 

My brother ! thou canst see how deep I grieve ; 

Look down, thou injured angel, and forgive ! 

Far hence a wretched fugitive, I roam, 

The earth my bed, the wilderness my home. 

Far hence I stray from these delightful seats, 

To solitary tracts, and drear retreats. 

Yet ah ! the very beasts will shun my sight, 

Will fly my bloody footsteps with affright. 

No brother they, no faithful friend have slain, 

Detested only for that crime is Cain. 

Had I but lull'd each fury of my soul, 

Had held each rebel passion in control, 

To nature and to God had faithful proved, 

And loved a brother as a brother loved, — 

Then had I sunk into a grave of rest, 

And Cain had breath'd his last on Abel's breast !'* 



The following juvenile exercises (composed amidst the hur- 
ry of public examinations, and within the short time allowed 
on such occasions) were thought to give fair promise of fu- 
ture excellence in Latin versification. Some of the best 
verses which he wrote have been 1 )st ; and he never applied 
himself afterwards to the cultivation of his talents in that 
way. 

GRiECIA CAPTA FERUM VICTOREM CEPIT. 

Intenta bellis, et rudis artium, 
Victrix juventus ingruit Atticae, 
Sedesque doctrinse dicatas, 
Imperio subigit superbo : 



APPENDIX. 

Sed non Camcenas ; ha? placido domant, 
Hae saava cultu pectora molliunt, 
Gratasque Romanum vaganti 
Ingenioinjiciunt habenas : 
Victas Athenas en juvenum cohors, 
Victas Athenas Ausonium petit 
Examen ; in campos Pelasgos 
Roma ferex Latiumque fluxit. 
Hinc mutuatur gymnasio forum 
Torrentis aestus eloquii, et gravis 
Demoslhenis gustavit acer 
Rhetoricum Cicero fluentum. 
Rapta sonori Maeonidis tuba, 
Dignos magistro dat numeros Maro ; 
Audaxque clangorem strepentem 
Increpat, attonitusque cantat. 
Chordam in Latinas iEolicam lyras 
Modumque Flaccus iranstulit aureum, et 
Mel dulce libavit, Poetae 
Aonii labiis caducum. 



287 



PRINCIP1IS OBSTA. 

Surge ! nee turpis teneat Voluptas ; 
Arma, qua? Virtus dedit, atque Numen, 
Indue, ad pugnam citus ; ecce praesens 

Advenit hostis. 
Advenit dirum Vitium, ille primo 
Praelio tantum superandus hostis ; 
Conseras pugnam, cadat atque summo 

Limine victus. 
Yiperae saevam genitura prolem 
Ova conculca ; nisi sic latentes 
Comprimas pestes, breviter tremenda 

Pullulat Hydra. 
Ergo vincendum Vitium juventa est : 
Herculis vivas memor, et tenella 
Strangulet, cunis etiam, ingruentes 

Dextra dracones. 



288 



APPENDIX. 

IRA FUROR BREVIS EST. 

Quaresupremum dat gemitum Clytus ? 
Senexque cara miles obit manu ? 

Quis pectus invadit fidele 
Ni Furiis agitatus ipsis ? 
Furore felix ! cui scelus et nefas 
Postquam patrasset non Ratio redit ! 
Non mentis ultoris flagella 
Sentiet, et rabie fruetur. 

Ast Ira prse-eps — perfidior Furor, 

Mentes ut aegras impulit in scelus, 

Relinquit, accedunt querela?, 

Conscia mens, lachrymaeque inanes. 



MISCELLANEOUS THOUGHTS. 

It is curious to. observe what sources superstition used to 
furnish to imagination, and what civilization has supplied for 
them. This may be aptly illustrated by the circumstance of 
eclipses. These formerly excited a real and present terror 
in barbarous minds, and gave a wild and violent impulse to 
their imaginations. Civilization has dried up this fountain 
for the fancy, but has supplied the knowledge of that glorious 
system of the universe, which though it does not so imperi- 
ously demand consideration, yet, when considered, displays a 
much more magnificent and extensive field for imagination, 
which thus seems to have even gained by its alliance with 
truth. 

Imagination seems almost necessary to truth and reason, 
and often first suggests what reason afterwards proves ; and 
afterwards seems necessary (at least with such limited beings 
as we are) to admire its results. 

Truth and reason, when rightly considered, by developing" 
the works of the Deity, are, in other words, developing the 
sublime and beautiful, which are also the objects of imagina- 
tion. 

There is a degree of alliance between truth and imagery. 
We look for a degree of probability in the wildest fits of fan- 
cy ; and require, at least, apparent harmony and coherence, 
and a consistency with human nature. 



APPENDIX. 



289 



Imagination it is which sustains hope, joy, &c. Shall we 
then part with it in heaven ? It appears to be a partial ex- 
ertion of a more general faculty — a love of the sublime and 
beautiful ; so that this our lovely earthly companion, with 
whom we have wandered over mountain and wild, and by 
whose side we have reposed in glen and valley, — this our 
wayward and romantic guardian may rise when we rise, and 
become glorified with us in heaven. 

Men who accustom themselves to take comprehensive views 
of practical subjects, often forget the application to themselves 
as individuals, in considering the effect upon the aggregate of 
mankind, or upon collective bodies. Thus meu, who with a 
yiew to raise the character, and justly appreciate the good ef- 
fects of Christianity, employ themselves much in considering 
its influence upon society, are sometimes ignorant of its doc- 
trines, and uninfluenced by its precepts. One reason is, that 
in considering the aggregate of mankind the individual is 
kept out of view ; another, that many of the effects upon so- 
ciety are merely temporal, and all come short of those which 
it produces upon any one individual upon whom it is practi- 
cally influential ; another, is the pride that naturally accom- 
panies the mind which is possessed of those comprehensive 
powers. 

It might be at once one of the most certain and the most 
agreeable methods of decomposing and developing- the ingre- 
dients of human nature, to take some of those passages of un- 
doubted and transcendent excellence which are supplied by 
poetry, oratory, and polite literature in general, and by alter- 
ing one or two of the less prominent words or expressions, 
perhaps a mere particle, into one apparently synonymous, to 
observe the change of feeling produced by change of phrase, 
,and pursue it to its source. This would be a species of meta- 
physical analysis, in which, from real though delicate and un- 
obtrusive data, we might, by cautious reasoning, arrive at 
abstract principles. For if a change of feeling is produced, 
if we feel a disappointment at any alteration, however slight, 
the pleasure or pain is as real, though not as intense, as the 
most extravagant joy or the most violent agon)'. Thus we 
should detect many a pleasure (as we often do) only by its 
loss; and, what is still more important, would be guided, in 
the progress of reasoning, to its principles, and prevented 
from indulging in fanciful and extravagant speculation, by 
having two feelings to compare or contrast — the pleasure 
with its disappointment. This might lead to a knowledge of 

25 



290 



APPENDIX- 



the principles of our nature ; to an acquaintance with the 
delicacy of language and style ; to a radical improvement of 
taste, and to a perception of the more retiring, but, perhaps, 
the more exalted beauties of literature. 

It was the greatest compliment ever passed upon one of 
the greatest statesmen the world ever saw, " that he ruled 
the wilderness of free minds." Shall we then deny to the 
Creator an excellence that we admire in one of his creatures ? 

The question between (I believe) Voltaire and Rosseau, 
*' Whether the savage or the civilized state were preferable V* 
is one of the greatest arguments for the utter depravation of 
our species. The mere naked fact, that such a question had 
arisen among rational beings — Whether they should continue 
in a state allied to the brute, or exert the very faculties 
which constituted them a species ? is enough ; we need go no 
farther. 



THE FOLLOWING WERE FOUND AMONGST 
SOME OF HIS JUVENILE PAPERS. 

Successful ambition is like the rainbow which spans the 
sky, and is gazed at by all who behold it with admiration : it 
is composed of the rays of the sun, together with the approach- 
ing rain and the advancing cloud. Alas ! and does not am- 
bition span the earth with a momentary grasp, and is it not 
composed of the beams of glory, which are transient, and the 
deluge of rain and devastation, and the cloud of misfortunes, 
which are permanent ? For the rainbow fades and dies away 
in an instant, and the rays of its glory depart with it ; but 
the rain and cloud existed while it existed, and survived when 
the rainbow and its beams had vanished. Thus does the man 
of ambition derive his glory from causing ruin : the ruin is 
contemporary with the glory, and outlives it. His dear beam 
fades as he sinks into the grave, but he bequeaths the storm 
to his fellow-creatures. 

Irish music often gives us the idea of a mournful retrospect 
upon past gaiety, which cannot help catching a little of the 
spirit of that very gaiety which it is lamenting. 



APPENDIX. ^® l 

There appear to be two species of eloquence ; one arising 
from a clear and intense perception of truth, the other from a 
rich and powerful imagination. 

The sentiment comes at once from the lips of the orator, 
with language at the moment of its birth, like Minerva in 
panoply from the brow of Jove. 

The milk of human nature appears under as many differ- 
ent modifications in the dispositions of men, as the substance, 
to which it is compared, undergoes in the dairy. In some 
men of a perpetual and impregnable good humour, it has all 
the oiliness and consistency of butter ; in those of a liberal 
and generous disposition, it has all the richness of cream ; in 
men of a sickly habit of mind, it has all the mawkish insipid- 
ity of whey ; and in a large portion of the community, it pos- 
sesses all the sourness of buttermilk. 

Solitude and Society may be illustrated by a lake and river. 
In the one, indeed, we can view the heavens more calmly 
and distinctly ; but we can also see our own image more 
clearly, and are in danger of the sin of Narcissus : while, in 
the river, the view both of the heavens and of ourselves is 
more broken and disturbed ; but health and fertility are scat- 
tered around. 

The imperfect progress of Christianity is only analogous to 
that first state of which it is the restitution — the state of Adam 
in Eden. There Adam was liable to fall ; and the blessings 
of Christianity — which is declared to be the restoration of 
that state — are of course as much subject to rejection as the 
blessings of paradise : 

" Flowers of Eden that we may cast away." 

Those who cavil at the apparent clashing of the attributes 
ef the Deity, and at the control which they appear to exer- 
cise mutually upon each other, involuntarily fall into a spe- 
cies of paganism. They distribute the Deity into so many 
different essences : they, in fact, deify his attributes, and 
make so many independent gods. Whereas, the division of 
the Deity into attributes is only an accommodation to the 
weakness of human faculties. He is the simple, perfect De- 
ity ; of single and uncompounded energy ; like the solar ray, 
appearing more pure and simple than its ingredients. 

One difficulty of a preacher is, to balance the terrors and 
comforts of religion ; a difficulty in style rather than in mat= 



292 



APPENDIX. 



ter. Those who speak upon other subjects have generally to 
give the mind a strong impulse in one direction, because 
their object is generally to produce one certain specific act, 
i. e. a vote on a certain side ; but the preacher has to induce 
a habit of acting, to regulate a man's hopes and fears. This 
perhaps is one argument against extemporaneous preaching. 

Shall the word of a physician alter our regimen ? Shall a 
few hundreds added to, or subtracted from our fortune, alter 
our style of living ? — And yet shall a visit from God produce 
no change ? Shall heaven have descended upon earth,- and 
earth remain what it was ? Shall the Spirit of God have com- 
muned with me, and shall my soul return unpurified from the 
conversation ? 

Christ is " God manifest :" He is the Word — God heard : 
the Light — God seen : the Life — God felt. 



The difference between our Lord's style of prophecy and 
that of all other prophets, is this : He seems to speak with a 
clear steady perception of futurity, as if his eye was just as 
calmly fixed upon future events as if the whole were a pre- 
sent occurrence : the prophets appear only to have a picture, 
or a strong delineation of their prominent features, and their 
imaginations became heated and turbid, and agitated and 
confused. 

The story of St. Paul's conversion is told in three different 
ways by the same author ; and when compared, the differen- 
ces appear so natural, from the different situations and cir- 
cumstances in which they are related, that, first, they bear 
invincible testimony to the authenticity and genuineness of 
the book itself; and, secondly, are a standing instance how 
natural are the variations between the different Gospels ; and 
prove that, instead of furnishing an objection, they are an ad- 
ditional evidence of their truth. The account of the baptism 
of Cornelius is told twice, and is another instance of the same 
kind. 

One of the uses of obscurity in the Bible is to excite curi- 
osity, and to make an exercise for the faculties as well as for 
the affections and dispositions, in order that the whole man 
may be employed in religion ; that there may be a mode of 
religious exercise which may serve both to relieve the exer- 
cise of mere feeling, and serve as a kind of substratum and 
arena, on which those feelings may find matter, range, and 
variety. 



APPENDIX. 293 

However the world may affect to despise the genuine Chris- 
tian, it is beyond their power ; they feel too sensibly the diffi- 
culty of attaining- that very state of feeling- and disposition 
which is displayed in such a character, to entertain in their 
heart any mean or degrading 1 opinion of the character which 
they apparently undervalue. Every thought which is wrung* 
from their conscience by its unwelcome obtrusion upon their 
contemplation, rises in judgment against their indifference. 
God has not permitted them to despise a true Christian: 
they may pass him by with a haughty and supercilious cold- 
ness : they may deride him with a taunting and sarcastic 
irony ; but the spirit of the proudest man that ever lived will 
bend before the grandeur of a Christian's humility. You are 
at once awed, and you recoil upon your own conscience when 
you meet with one whose feelings are purified by the Gospel. 
The light of a Christian's soul, when it shines into the dark 
den of a worldly heart, startles and alarms the gloomy pas- 
sions that are brooding within. Is this contempt? No : but 
all the virulence which is excited by the Christian graces can 
be resolved into envy — the feelings of devils when they think 
on the pure happiness of angels : and to complete their con- 
fusion, what is at that moment the feeling in the Christian's 
heart ? Pity, most unfeigned pity. 

The ancients either let their passions run wild, or confined 
them like wild beasts in their cages, where they were kept 
muttering in their cells : but Christ has taught them their le- 
gitimate exercise. 

The question, Whether the passions are to be admitted in- 
to religion ? divides itself into two r First, Whether the pas- 
sions are unreasonable in themselves ? Secondly, Whether 
they are misplaced in religion ? The first is a piece of stoi- 
cism, that is too absurd and ridiculous to be maintained. 

The second divides itself also into two : First, Whether the 
affections are misplaced in religion, generally ? Secondly, 
Whether our Saviour is the proper object of them ? 

First, generally : It i&a great presumption against it, that 
it proposes at once to exclude from religion so grand a part 
of the composition of man. It is to be supposed, that as the 
organs of the body, so the original passions of the mind, were 
given for some valuable purposes by the Creator. They are 
now in perpetual rebellion ; and reason alone would presume 
that it would be the effect of revelation completely to repair 
the consequences of this corruption. This indeed had been 
tried by human systems in vain, Epicurus confirmed the 



294 APPENDIX. 

usurpation of the passions ; the Stoics attempted to extinguish 
them ; but it is the peculiar office of Christianity to bring all 
the faculties of our nature into their due subordination ; 
1 that so the whole man, complete in all his functions, may 
be restored to the true end of his being', and devoted, entire, 
and harmonious, to the service and glory of God. 7 



fr--' 






<p 






A^ X ,' V "< 







• v.. 






" ^ c " 



4 ^ J$ 



A 






>• 



•>* v 






v 0o 



V 



CK I- 



a i 










$>** 




Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: May 2009 






PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724) 779-2111 









,#' 



- 



^ X 



'f't 









- 















V 



V 



% .C 












A' 



o 



; r tv* 









\ ^. 



Ci 









u 






o 






A 




,0o 



%>^' 
* -V*^ 



■4 t' 






%>*' 






^ 













v 5 ^ v> % 






. . * ^ 






v0 o. 



^ 






o> 



^ 

v 




HHrai H 

sedmHHHa 



